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

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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

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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]. 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] 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] 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.

I never met him; he died before I was born. Once, I came across a man in our ancestral village who said he knew my grandfather – "Reverend Sarkis" – very well. I asked him why he was calling my grandfather "Reverend." "Well, of course," he said, "your grandfather was the last priest in our region!" As it turned out, when my grandfather – a literate man – came back to Karabakh after fleeing the Baku pogroms, he was offered the opportunity to become a priest. Being literate was not common then. My grandfather agreed and served until the late 1920s, before the last church was shut down. Even though my father grew up a devoted communist, his application to join the Communist Party was denied for a long time based on his family history. My father took it to heart, and even after many years, he didn't feel comfortable talking about it with us.

My paternal grandmother had a stern demeanor – I never saw her smile. A priest's widow, she didn't believe in God. My brother and I sometimes teased her, "Grandma, they told us at school that God exists!" She would wave her hands at us and ask us not to talk nonsense. She never punished us, but we always listened to her, most likely sensing her inner strength and toughness. Our grandmother had three children: her eldest son – my father – and two daughters. The husband of one of her daughters died in World War II, and she lived with her son in Baku. My grandmother's younger daughter lived with her family in Stepanakert, not too far away from us. The younger daughter died early and unexpectedly while I was away serving in the army. Precisely a year after her daughter's death, my grandmother made a suicide attempt by taking too many sleeping pills. When she came to at the hospital, she explained, "I shouldn't have lived longer than my daughter."

In our family, the adults never fought and never raised their voices. My mom lived peacefully with her mother-in-law. Perhaps they sorted things out between them when the children couldn't see them? I don't think so; we lived in a happy home. My mom kept our household together. Strong-willed, strict to a degree, and practical, she defined our household order, kept track of our family expenses, and took care of our upbringing. She was responsible for everything that had to do with our education. I remember that my older brother had difficulty waking up early in the morning. I would be up before the alarm clock, but Valera had to be dragged out of his bed. Mother would wake him up, and he would mumble, half asleep, "Mom, please, one more minute… one more second…" And here she might raise her voice a bit.

The primary source of conflict between my mother and me was the music classes. Her distant nephew played the violin, and my mother's dream was that I would learn to play a musical instrument. When I was in the first grade, she sent me to music school, but I was embarrassed to carry the violin and hated it with a passion. When I walked with it outside, my ears burnt and I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I suffered for the first two years but found a solution during the third year. I would leave the house to go to music school, but instead, I hid the violin in the boxwood bushes nearby and played soccer with my friends. After the game, I would retrieve the violin and return home as if nothing had happened. I skipped music school like this for two months before my music teacher called my parents. My secret was out, and I got into very serious trouble. My mom wanted me to go back to music school, but I refused. Emphatically. By that time, I had already learned to resist. Finally, mom yielded but went after my brother. She made Valera take piano classes. He quit. Then she talked him into taking up the clarinet – same outcome. Mom persisted, but we defied her, and none of us became musicians.

Nonetheless, the head of our household was our father. He would come home late from work and frequently went on business trips. My father was passionate about agriculture and was responsible for the agriculture of our entire region. The successful development of viticulture in Karabakh was mainly due to his efforts. Moreover, he served as the deputy chairman of the regional executive committee for many years, even managing to carry out scientific work in the midst of his hectic schedule. After getting his Ph.D., he stayed in our town. This was quite unusual at the time – after receiving an academic degree, people would typically move to the capital cities: either Baku or Yerevan. But my father was convinced that he was needed here, in Nagorno-Karabakh. In these mountains, he, an agronomist, created the orchard-town and built the communist system, the ideals of which he sincerely believed in all his life.

Due to his busy work schedule, my father couldn't spend a lot of time with me, but he did his best to teach me what, in his opinion, every man must be able to do. I remember how he taught me to drive a car. We had an old Moskvitch sedan – I believe it was the 403 model with round edges. I was barely 13 back then and rather short. My dad sat me behind the wheel and asked me, "Can you reach the pedals?" – "I can" – "Can you see the road?" – "I can" – "Then, drive." And I drove.

He also taught me how to fire a gun – a 16-gauge single-barrel shotgun. We began by shooting at homemade targets we drew on plywood or cardboard, then we went hunting in the mountains. I was so proud of myself when I shot my first chukar partridge. Soon enough, my father allowed me to use the gun alone and then gave it to me for good. No kid in my neighborhood had their own gun yet. So we all would go hunting together in the mountains with that single gun.

I went to a Russian school, and I did well. Whether I liked the subject or not, I couldn't imagine entering the classroom unprepared. I couldn't imagine a bigger embarrassment than to stand by the chalkboard not knowing what to say. In general, I was quick and disciplined: as soon as I came home, I did all my homework, and then I was free. Math and physics were easy; I liked geography and literature. Languages, including Russian, were much more challenging for me. My essays were good, but I made too many spelling mistakes. The only two subjects that I really wasn't attracted to were the Armenian and English language classes. Ironically, fate would make me learn them as an adult. When I became Armenia's prime minister, I truly regretted that I skipped Armenian classes in school! I would never have guessed that I would need them so much: our Karabakh dialect is very different and hard to understand in Armenia.

The courtyard was essentially the center of our universe. The private home we lived in was next to an apartment complex, and all the neighbors – adults, children, and the elderly – gathered in its spacious courtyard every evening. They all knew each other well and spent their spare time together like a large extended family. There was a gazebo in the courtyard's center, where adults battled over chess and backgammon, poking fun at each other while we ran around. Once in a while, one of the players would say something particularly witty, and the gazebo would explode in loud laughter that bounced off the buildings and reached every far corner of the courtyard. And since everyone made fun of everyone else, the light-hearted laughter never stopped. In short, the atmosphere in the courtyard was amicable and cheerful.

Our courtyard was seen as upscale. The chief of police, the head of the People's Oversight Committee, and several officials of the region's Communist Party Committee lived in the big apartment building. In general, our neighborhood was cultured – people read books, and played sports. Kids played soccer, basketball, and – what was particularly popular at the time – handball at the school's nearby sports field. Naturally, we would argue, quarrel, and fight during the game on rare occasions, but it didn't ruin our friendship. Sometimes, we played soccer with kids from rougher neighborhoods down the street. Some games were friendly, some not so much. However, there were no serious fights; we mostly waved our fists in the air from the abundance of energy and excitement.

As with everyone in my generation, my childhood was carefree and happy. I might be biased, but I am convinced that there was something special about Karabakh. All around – in Azerbaijan, in Armenia, and in the entire Caucasus – corruption flourished, and crime lords had authority. But Karabakh remained an oasis of law and order. The word "bribery" was considered the most terrible insult, and people sincerely believed that they were building a communist society. Apparently, the ideals of equality and fraternity for all were in line with the traditional values of many generations of Karabakh people, and the dream of an ideal society took root in our land. Residents of Nagorno-Karabakh – upstanding Soviet citizens – sincerely believed in their bright future.

And that's how we lived – calmly and simply, thinking that nothing could disturb our quiet and isolated land, generations succeeding generations.

CHAPTER 2
MOSCOW STUDENT

In my last year of high school, I knew exactly what my next step would be: I would go to Moscow and apply to a technical university. I didn't look beyond that – the rest of my life seemed like a clean page that any story could be written on. I set my mind on a technical university because I liked science far greater than the humanities. I chose Moscow because the only university in Stepanakert was the Pedagogical Institute, and I never considered it an option. When Stepanakert high school graduates wanted to get a good college education, they would go to Yerevan or Moscow. It was impossible to study in a foreign country: borders were closed. In the Soviet Union, Moscow provided the best education, which meant that my path led to Moscow.

I aced my high school final exams, packed my suitcase, and departed for Moscow. My sister greeted me there – she lived in Reutov with her husband. I stayed with them while I took the college entrance exams. When I went to the Moscow Power Engineering Institute to submit my application the next day, I noticed that all the light poles nearby were full of tutoring ads. As it turned out, Moscow college applicants were far better prepared than us back home – we didn't even know what a tutor was. We thought that simply doing well in school would get you into college. I still had some time before the entrance exams, and I had some catching up to do. I found a tutor, scheduled classes, and dove into it. I remember my first two weeks in Moscow as a nightmare of round-the-clock studying.

Contrary to my fears, I did pretty well on the exams and was admitted to the university's Department of Power Engineering. I called my father. Mobile phones didn't exist yet, so I had to go to the post office, place an order, indicate the call duration, and sit and wait for the connection to make the long-distance phone call. My father was happy that I got accepted. Despite his usual emotional restraint, I could sense that he was proud that his son would go to college in the capital.

Now I had time to take a breath and look around. When I was in the seventh or eighth grade, I had visited Moscow, but it was a really short trip, and I didn't remember much of it. This time, however, for a young fellow from a small mountain town, Moscow's scale and atmosphere, its vast palatial underground metro, and its entirely different crowd were awe-inspiring. I didn't feel lost; instead, I was happy and proud. I spent the summer days walking around, absorbing the spirit of the capital.

My classes started in the fall. They turned out to be easier than I expected but not too exciting either. Perhaps the reason was that a fascinating and well-educated person, a walking encyclopedia – Kim Grigorian, my brother-in-law – came into my life. I had never met a man of such erudition before, and I haven't, perhaps, ever since then. Kim was also from Stepanakert. He had graduated from Moscow's Textile Institute and headed аn engineering design bureau at some large factory. I stayed at a dorm in Lefortovo but spent all my weekends at my sister and Kim's tiny apartment in Reutov. My informal education began there.

We spent evenings in the kitchen. Kim talked about unusual things. I grew up in a family where the fairness and effectiveness of the Soviet system were never questioned. As an ordinary Soviet boy, the son of a communist, I believed that I lived in the best country in the world. But now, day after day, evening after evening, Kim showed me the reality. I learned about Stalin's repressions and the millions of people who died of starvation during the collectivization. I learned about Red commanders arrested right before World War II and Stalin's secret pact with Hitler to divide Europe.

Kim wasn't an active dissident; he was just a clear thinker who relentlessly criticized the system. Few in the Soviet Union back then understood the horrific realities of Stalin's regime or how stagnant Brezhnev's rule was. Kim found a grateful listener in me and unleashed all these truths upon me. Toward the middle of the night, tired of our long discussions, we listened to jammed Radio Liberty programs or to jazz.

Kim introduced me to a range of literature on politics, philosophy, and theology. These were not samizdat publications, yet their content had a profound impact on reshaping my mindset.

We began with Baruch Spinoza's Theologico-Political Treatise. I had never read anything like it before. It was a very tough but insanely exciting read. The world opened up to me in a different way. I came to believe that only through a social contract, accepted voluntarily and based on reason, could an individual's passions and flaws be reined in. These ideas had little in common with Soviet realities, but I didn't try to tie them together at the time – I was simply absorbing them. Although it is possible that, decades later, when I became president of post-Soviet Armenia, this 17th-century book that I read at the age of 17 subliminally impacted many of my decisions.

Once, Kim gave me a copy of the Bible. It was a small, pocket-sized book with a soft cover that contained 1,000 pages – a miracle by itself. I read it quickly, not understanding why I needed it. I did not become a believer, of course. Still, it shook the ideological framework instilled in every one of us by the Soviet system. The Bible seemed more humanistic than "The Moral Code of the Builder of Communism," posted as visual propaganda in every school's hallways.

Although my conversations with Kim seriously shook me, they didn't turn me into a philosopher or a dissident. They had a cooling effect on my studies, however. Technical sciences didn't offer answers to philosophical questions, and these issues consumed me more and more. I had a feeling that I hadn't chosen the right college, but I continued to attend classes and completed the first semester quite well. At the same time, my social life as a student was thriving. I made friends, and together we walked around Moscow and went to the movies and cafes. There were many options for rest and recreation in the city that distracted us from our studies. The Metelitsa café on Kalinin boulevard (today's Noviy Arbat) was particularly trendy among students for some reason, and going there was considered very chic. On Saturdays, we went to the dance club in our dorm. One of these visits to the dance club ended up being a turning point in my student life.

At the end of May, right before the second semester finals, a new and somewhat arrogant guy showed up at the dance club. He behaved defiantly, believing that he could do anything he wanted and was clearly looking for a fight. I lashed out. Friends tried to stop me by telling me his dad was someone important, and it wasn't worth it. I didn't budge, and a fight broke out. I struck him hard. I didn't hurt him too much, didn't break a bone, but he ended up with a big shiner. I didn't pay too much attention to this: stuff happens – you get all worked up, then you calm down, make peace, and even become friends.

Two days later, I was summoned to the dean's office. They made me write a statement and threatened to expel me. I tried to explain that he had been looking for a fight. It turned out that this guy was related to someone in the institute's leadership. As a result, the dance floor incident got blown out of proportion. They didn't expel me right away, perhaps because the guy's guilt was too obvious: he was extremely drunk and instigated the fight. However, the issue dragged on; I found myself visiting the dean's office over and over, my relationship with the department deteriorated significantly, and my already waning interest in my studies dimmed completely. There was no way I could tell my parents about this incident, and for some reason, I didn't share it with my sister or Kim either.

In the end, I told the dean that I would transfer to another college and asked for a chance to leave on my own volition. He agreed.

It was summer again, another June. One year prior, I had come to Moscow, taken college entrance exams, got accepted, and called my father to tell him that I got in. My father was so proud of his son… Now, I was holding expulsion papers in my hand. The fact itself didn't bother me too much, but I was unbearably ashamed to tell my father, and I couldn't bring myself to talk to him for a long time. I knew that this news would become a real tragedy for him.

But I couldn't delay any longer, and I went to the post office. I gave our home number to the phone operator and sat down to wait for the connection. The time couldn't have crawled any slower. Minutes felt like hours. And finally, far away in the receiver, I heard my father's happy voice through static and crackling – his son was calling!

"Dad, I quit the institute."

My father was overwhelmed with the unexpected news.

"Why? What happened?"

I struggled to find an answer. I couldn't tell him about the conflict, and he wouldn't believe I had flunked my classes – I was always a straight-A student, after all.

"It just didn't work out. I don't want to study anymore. I'll join the army."

My father went silent. He didn't know what to say.

"I'll go to Kharkov."

My mother's brothers lived in Kharkov. I just couldn't go home – I didn't know how to look my father in the eye.

I hung out in Kharkov for a month and then went back to Stepanakert. I could see that my father was upset, but he didn't ask me anything. I was very much avoiding the conversation about my interrupted studies too.

I got a job as a machine operator-assembler at the electrotechnical plant. I worked five days a week, and on weekends, I would head to the mountains with friends, often bringing a gun. Fall, always incredibly picturesque in Karabakh, painted the hills with a range of bright colors. Sometimes, I didn't even feel like hunting, not wanting to interrupt the peace and quiet. Instead, I simply walked the mountain trails. My memories of being a college student in Moscow got pushed further and further back and gradually faded.

CHAPTER 3
THE ARMY

I didn't make any plans for the future; I waited to be called in for military service. All my friends got drafted on November 9, and I wanted to go with them, hoping that we would serve together. But the draft board seemed to have forgotten about me – my records had probably gotten stuck somewhere since I had gone out of town to attend college. So I had to ask for my father's help. He called the military commissar, whom he knew very well, and told him that I wanted to serve immediately. The military commissar was startled. He said, "You are the first to call asking to expedite military service. People usually ask me to help dodge the draft or delay it!" He fulfilled my father's request, and I was drafted right after the November holidays.

I ended up in the railway troops, whose existence I didn't even suspect before. I thought we would crisscross the country by rail performing military tasks. But as it turned out, we were to build those railways for others to travel on. The only thing that differentiated the construction battalions was that we weren't paid to do it. With this, any poetics of performing military service disappeared immediately.

First, I was sent to a boot camp in Cherepovets. The only memorable part of that town for me was the chimneys of its metallurgical plant. All the way to the horizon – chimneys, chimneys, and more chimneys, each spewing smoke of a different color ranging from black to orange. The following day it snowed, and the ground was covered with varying shades of the same smoke. The training center gathered groups from various republics, different regions of the country; there were about 10 of us from Karabakh, and none of my friends were among them.

Boot camp is a special place. A whole lot of guys from the same draft season end up in an unusual setting, where they must understand and get a sense of what military service is going to be like. In part, that understanding comes through adjusting and forming an internal hierarchy. For instance: who sleeps on the top bunk and who sleeps on the bottom, or who is responsible for cleaning the bathrooms. I didn't want to clean bathrooms at all.

It was here that I finally understood the essence of the "natural law" in Spinoza's Political Treatise. Fists, and the perpetual willingness to use them, became the only means of self-assertion. I was in good shape. My years of freestyle wrestling came in very handy, and my courage and will were over the top. Boldness and aggression, which I never thought I had, suddenly surfaced in me. Very soon, I started to get respect. A guy who grew up in a cultured family from an upscale part of a quiet town unexpectedly ended up in a setting where he had to fight for a place in the sun – brutally and without mercy. I faced the kind of reality I was shielded from during my childhood and adolescence. This played a critical role in my self-formation. I acquired the skills necessary to function in unfriendly and even highly aggressive environments. Without these skills, I probably couldn't have faced the ordeals awaiting me in the future.

From boot camp, I was sent to Pushkin, near Leningrad, and later to Vologda. It was the same story: adjusting and self-assertion, but it was much easier to do this time.

This type of service could hardly be called military service. I saw the shooting range only once, and I shot nine rounds there. I didn't see any military hardware, only tractors and dump trucks. For the next two months, I lived a free life in Leningrad. We repaired trailers in the workshops of the Defense Ministry for a month. We lived there, too, and worked hard, but we were free at night. I drove all over Leningrad dressed in a tracksuit. We didn't have any bosses, only a guard – a retired old man. Then I worked at an army farm near Viborg for a month. Together with seven other soldiers, I harvested potatoes and vegetables for our military base. We lived in the local cultural center under my supervision – no marching drills, no army service regulations. Here, too, just like in Pushkin, we worked hard during the day, but at night, we went to the local dance hall, where we were very popular with local girls.

I served my final year in Mongolia – in Darkhan and Erdenet. It was very different from serving in stationary military units. Our command was ordered to form a special battalion to build a railway from Darkhan to Erdenet in order to reach Mongolia's molybdenum mines. Every military base in the railway troops sent several servicemen, according to quotas, to form this new battalion.

To get rid of the troublemakers, commanding officers gave them favorable reviews and assigned them to the newly-formed battalion. I was serving in Vologda at the time and volunteered for the battalion to join my friend, who was number one on the list to be sent away. Kolya, from Bryansk, was our commanding officer's biggest headache. He was awfully rowdy, a regular in the stockade, yet brilliant and well-read. He annoyed the entire command with his very well-written complaint letters to various agencies. He wrote them all the time, triggering multiple inspections to check on the complaints. Our commanding officer was furious, of course.

I remember that during the morning flag assembly, enraged by another inspection, he screamed at the top of his lungs, "We can't find someone to write even a couple of lines for our unit's newspaper, yet this dick composed a whole letter and sent it to none other than the minister of defense himself!" I think our commanding officer was the happiest man in the world to hear that a critical railroad was to be built in Mongolia.

Thus, the new battalion boarded a train and spent the next 10 days getting to its destination. Imagine a crowd of the rowdiest heavy-drinking rebels – some new recruits, some about to be discharged – on a train together for 10 days. No one knew what they were capable of. The adjustment, this time on the road, began right away. We saw our platoon commander only twice – once at the place we boarded and once at the destination, but this time with a big shiner. I don't know how he got it, but I could tell that he had been drinking non-stop. As it turned out, the officers were selected using the same criteria: they were the ones to be gotten rid of. Even though the commanding officer and the political officer were capable professionals, it took a lot of effort to control this bedlam.

We reached our deployment location at night. There was nothing but a bare steppe, but we had to settle there. We put up tents. We had to do everything ourselves: organize our work, get equipment, and build shelters. There were no settlements for many miles around. You could drive for three hours and not see anything except for a couple of yurts and a herd of cattle.

In these harsh and very unusual living and working conditions, soldiers built very different relationships from those on regular stationary military bases. Sticks and carrots didn't work. The stockade was far away in Ulan Bator. There was nowhere to go after dismissal – only wild nature all around us. Our leisure time was built around the high bar, weights, parallel bars, and boxing gloves. There was a pool table set up for the officers in the field, but it remained there only until a sandstorm lifted it 50 meters high and slammed it onto the ground, smashing it to pieces.

Matters were not settled by the army service regulations. Although we were privates, three of us – Gena from Riga, Kolya from Bryansk, and I – ended up at the top of the hierarchy. We were on good terms with the officers, and our detachment was completing tasks ahead of schedule. But enforcing service regulations – the way they did in Moscow or Germany, where soldiers lived in good barracks, had showers, followed precise daily schedules, and were well fed – was impossible.

We didn't have barracks at all – we lived in tents. As the railroad construction progressed, our base moved three times to be closer to the work site. Each time, we had to settle in from scratch. The nature was breathtaking: very unique landscapes, unusual to my eye. Gently sloping mountains that stretched across the steppe underscored the vastness of pristine wilderness. The climate was markedly harsh: -35° centigrade in the winter and 40° during the summer. In May, it was -3° at night and 27° during the day. Yet, we stayed in tents, 30 soldiers in each tent. For heat, we used woodburning stoves with long chimneys. It was cold on the bottom of the bunk bed and scorching hot on the top, where all the earlier recruits slept. With no refrigerators in the steppe, meat would go bad before it could reach us during the summer. So that we wouldn't be eating canned meat all summer, our commanding officer let us put together a fishing brigade, which I joined thanks to my hunting skills. We caught burbots at night in the Orkhon and Selenga rivers for the entire military base and slept during the day. Sometimes we shot antelopes by chasing them down in GAZ-66 trucks, although it wasn't encouraged. This is how the summer went by.

Serving in the army was а priceless character-building life experience for me.

After being discharged, my relationships with my army friends didn't last for too long. We went our separate ways, and long-distance communications back then – without mobile telephone service and social media – required much effort.

CHAPTER 4
SUCCESSION OF CHANGES

Limitchik[4]

I was discharged from the army at the end of December, right before New Year's Eve, and made it home for the holidays. By then, all of my friends, classmates, acquaintances, and neighbors of the same age had already returned to Stepanakert, having concluded their military service. The phone rang almost every day. "Oh, you're already here? We have to meet!" I wanted to see everybody, and I met up with someone every day. During one of these get-togethers, I got drunk for the first time. Luckily, I realized it when I was already home.

A month and a half flew by in the blink of an eye.

As I began getting back into civilian life, I pondered what to do next. First, I tried settling down in Moscow. I flew to the capital and moved in with my sister in Reutov. I went to the Moscow Power Engineering Institute. I realized that nothing had changed there, and there was no way I could get re-admitted. So I gave up and began looking for a job. Those like me, who were dismissively called "limitchiks," were drawn in by the prospect of a Moscow residence status. We were actively encouraged to join construction projects, Moscow's Metrostroy transport authority, or work in the factories – jobs that weren't too popular with Muscovites. The capital grew rapidly, and working hands were desperately needed. Newspapers were full of laborer job ads.

Before long, I got a job as a laborer at the Reinforced Concrete Plant (RCP) #11, not too far away from the Hammer and Sickle metro station. I had no idea what RCP was – I chose it by chance. I wanted to get a construction job, and my sister researched all the ads and found a company that, by Moscow standards, was not too far away from home. Besides, they provided decent housing in a newly constructed high-rise apartment complex, which became the determining factor.

This is how I became a concrete worker. When people ask me about this period, I joke that it was a great experience interacting with Moscow's working class and living in a worker dormitory. It required considerable self-control to resist getting drunk on Sundays, like everyone else. Otherwise, my neighbors were good people.

We were manufacturing concrete columns used in the construction of multi-story residential buildings. It was a labor-intensive process: first, we installed the rebar frame in the mold of the future column, put it on a concrete vibrator, and poured in the concrete. Then, the crane operator placed the contraption in the drying chamber, where it stayed overnight. The following morning, the molds were removed. Finally, the ready column was cured for a couple of days and transported to the construction site.

It was strenuous physical labor, but I was fit, and I managed well. Besides, it paid well – 200 rubles net was considered a decent salary. Moreover, I never had a habit of putting money away, so I made a good living as a single guy.

Our dorm in Novogireyevo was only one commuter train stop away from Reutov, where my sister and her husband lived, so my interaction with Kim continued. I didn't participate in sports that year – my work provided more than enough exercise. In a worker dorm in the 70s, there was nowhere to work out anyway.

So, another year passed in a blur, without any significant developments. I mostly worked and educated myself, reading a lot. But I had always read a lot, even as a child, except for my time in the army.

The library in Mongolia was small, and I read everything remotely interesting there. Besides, life in the army was not particularly conducive to reading, just like jail. Later, during the Karabakh conflict, one of our activists – Murad Petrosian, who had spent a decade in jail – cited Lenin all the time. Once, I asked him, "Look, with your life story, why are you citing classicists of Marxism?" He said that he learned Lenin by heart simply because there was nothing else to read at the jail's library.

I became more and more fascinated with philosophy. I read the original authors, and if I read fiction, it was by authors like Anatole France, who artfully wove philosophy into the narrative fabric. I discussed what I read with Kim in detail. I marvel at myself now – how did I read all that? How could I get through boring authors like Francis Bacon? But back then, I read them unremittingly, excitedly, and enthusiastically. I read works by every author I could find, everything that had been published.

I was quite taken with La Mettrie. Perhaps he isn't all that profound a thinker, but he does have an engaging writing style. And, of course, I read the classics: Rousseau, Montaigne, Hegel, Kant, and Nietzsche in samizdat. I liked Hegel's earliest work, Life of Jesus, which is easy to read. Everything else by him is a nightmare! Every sentence takes up nearly half a page and requires multiple readings to grasp its meaning, which is often quite simple. I made it through Hegel's Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion. Still, I got stuck in the very beginning of his Elements of the Philosophy of Right, perhaps, because of his writing style. German philosophers left an impression on me with their burdensome prose, as if they intentionally complicated the language to emphasize the scientific nature of their views. Perhaps my torments while reading Hegel are the reason behind my overly concise speaking style.

I'm kidding, of course.

Much of what I read was soon forgotten. I read philosophy for fun; I didn't read it to study it. But I am sure it wasn't a waste of time: it gave my brain a good workout, and left a lasting impact on my personality. I felt a strong need to develop intellectually, to learn something new. Perhaps I subconsciously satiated my thirst for knowledge with intensive self-education while I wasn't attending college.

I didn't manage to make many friends in Moscow. I wasn't friends with anyone at work, and in reality, I couldn't be friends with them. They were good guys, but almost all of them loved to drink. They ran to the nearest bar or liquor store to buy a bottle as soon as they got their paychecks. That lifestyle was foreign to my habits and my understanding of life. However, I became friends with a neighbor from the apartment complex next to mine. His name was David Voronov. He was intelligent and cultured – a lot older than me – and at that time, he was already divorced. He was passionate about dogs and equally passionate about postage stamps. David constantly bought, sold, and traded stamps – "speculated" as they said back then. It was considered semi-legal, and one could end up in jail for speculating. He tried recruiting me, and I even learned a little about stamps, but it didn't go beyond curiosity. I wasn't attracted to buying and selling.

I spent my free time with David and another guy, Valera. What was there to do for fun? Not much – trips to cafés or dance clubs on weekends. We would get out of town to pick mushrooms, swim in the lake, or simply stroll through the woods in the summer – sometimes with friends, sometimes with family, with Kim. Since none of us had cars, we relied on the commuter train. While doing this, I discovered unbelievably beautiful places near Moscow, especially in the direction of Gorky. Friends visited from Stepanakert occasionally. Once, an army friend from Riga came to see me, and I visited him too. These were the only events outside of the regular routine during the year.

After one year, I concluded that it was time for me to go home to Stepanakert. I didn't want to spend any more time in a job that I didn't like, live in a setting that didn't appeal to me, or keep filling my life with a monotonous and mind-numbing routine that didn't offer any prospects. They tried to keep me at the plant, recognizing that I was very proficient at my job. And in general, I always took everything that I did seriously – be it my studies, work, or workouts. The plant manager called me to his office and tried to make me stay. "We can transition you to a welder's position. It's an easier job, and there are opportunities for growth there," he said. I replied, refusing, "Nah, I am not leaving because it's hard. It's simply not my thing."

Jolt

Of course, my parents were happy that I returned, but I knew that I wasn't meeting their expectations. They couldn't imagine that their kids would end up without a college degree. Higher education was something essential and mandatory for my parents. My mom had a hard time accepting that my brother and I didn't study music when we were kids. But it was inconceivable to her that her son wouldn't be graduating from college.

Nonetheless, I told my parents bluntly that I wasn't ready to continue my studies, and they left me alone. Although it upset my father, he didn't say a word. He had learned long ago that it was impossible to force me to do things.

And for the time being… I was finally home. After chaotic and neurotic Moscow, where the commute took up a big part of my life, everything in Stepanakert was familiar, native, calm, and – most importantly – nearby. Family, good old childhood friends. I got a job as an electrician at the Silk Factory, Karabakh's most prominent business enterprise. I lived as any man my age would: I actively worked out, which I always enjoyed, continued to read a lot, and spent time with friends. We were a good team: my childhood friend Yura, with whom I shared a desk since grade school, my brother's classmate Albert – an intellectual with a brilliant mind – and I. We enjoyed each other's company, and we were happy hanging out together. We spent almost every weekend outdoors. I hunted a lot, but with a different group of friends or my brother. I had always enjoyed hunting, and I knew our mountains well since early childhood.

I think it was the most tranquil and happiest period of my life. Happiness is when you live in peace with yourself instead of searching within to find purpose or the meaning of life. Just like when you don't think about your internal organs until they start causing you pain, you don't analyze the reason for your spiritual balance when you have it.

Three years went by quietly.

Thoughts of going back to college visited me periodically. Still, they didn't take root as they didn't go well with my eventful and pleasant life. I was always busy. We would either go hunting for a couple of days with friends or do some other activity, and I couldn't force myself to switch gears to do other things. "I have to go to college… I must. I will, but not now, later. Definitely…"

And then, one day, sometime in the spring, I got a summons from the military commissariat. I was to report for duty the next day for some kind of training. It alarmed me. I called a friend at the commissariat asking about it. He told me that we were to be shipped to Kazakhstan to either harvest or plant something or do some other work of similar nature. In other words – reclamation of tselina (a Soviet state development and resettlement campaign to turn underdeveloped, scarcely populated, highly-fertile lands – mostly located in the steppes of the Volga region, Northern Kazakhstan, and Southern Siberia – into a major agriculture producing region). "For how long?" I asked him. "For three to four months," he answered. Wow! I had planned to go to the Black Sea for the summer, definitely not Kazakhstan. I had absolutely no desire to reclaim tselina. Tselina? Really? The steppes again? I had already honorably served in the Mongolian steppes!

All my textbooks were ready at home, as I had always intended to start studying for the college entrance exams, but I couldn't find the time to do so. I had procrastinated, thinking that I had enough time ahead of me. But now…

In short, I didn't go to the commissariat. I quit my job within a day, gathered my belongings, and put all the necessary textbooks in a suitcase. I called my brother (he served in Georgia at the time, near Tskhaltubo). "Hi," I told him. "That's it, I decided to go to college! I am coming to stay with you to study for the exams." "I will not be here for almost a month," my brother replied. "You can stay here, no problem." I was in Georgia the next day. My brother's apartment was in a secluded and very picturesque location. I didn't know anybody there, not a single person. All I had was a suitcase full of books and a month to prepare for the entrance exams.

Oh, how I studied for those exams! And with such intensity and passion! It was simply unbelievable. I didn't know that I could mobilize to such a degree. In a couple of days, I had immersed myself in it completely, taking breaks only to eat and sleep. And even my dreams were mathematical. The setting was perfect for this kind of concentration: no one around, only the military base, the jail, and the tea plantation where the prisoners harvested tea under a convoy. I caught fish in the nearby river, rode my brother's small motorcycle to the local grocery store, and cooked for myself. The month passed. I knew that I was ready to take the entrance exams to any technical institute. All I had to do was to go there and get it.

I chose Yerevan Polytechnic University. I went to Yerevan straight from Georgia without making a stop in Stepanakert. I submitted my application to the Department of Electrical Engineering. I had to take two math tests: one written and one oral. In reality, two more exams were required – physics and a supervised essay – but applicants with a high school GPA of 4.5 and above (out of 5) were allowed to skip them. To be admitted, applicants had to get a combined score of 9 points (out of 10) on the two math exams.

First, I took the written test. I felt very confident: I finished it effortlessly and quickly and got out of the room. But, surprisingly, I only got a 4 (out of 5). Imagine my frustration! I had rushed and made a careless mistake, which I failed to catch before turning the test papers in. This meant that I had to get a perfect score on the oral math test. I answered all the questions and said to the proctor, "I need to get a 5 on this." "Why?" he asked. "I have a high GPA, and I was planning to take only the math tests. The next exam is physics, and I didn't study for it," I explained. Of course, I had studied for it, but not as well. "Ask me anything – I need a 5!" I insisted. The examiner wrote five math problems and said, "You solve these – you got your 5." It took me only about 20 minutes to solve the problems, one after another, quickly. The examiner glanced at the sheet and said, "Well done, 5!"

And I got in.

It was all thanks to that military commissariat summons. To this day, I remember the last name of our commissar – Kurochkin. And I am grateful to that Kurochkin for giving me a jolt. It sometimes happens in life when an unpleasant event shakes you up and makes you take decisive action. The commissariat summons sobered me up. It hit me that I had to change my life.

A Student Again

I didn't know Yerevan too well. It was strange, but despite being Armenian, I had only visited Yerevan twice before. Perhaps this was because I had few relatives there. My grandmother's brother – a very charming and incredibly modest retired colonel – lived in Yerevan. While attending college, I decided to visit him once. The old man didn't feel well and believed that he wouldn't last long. When I entered his room, he was lying in bed, sorting through the little boxes of his war medals. I was surprised and asked him, "What are these?" I began looking through the medals: Order of the Red Banner of Military Valor, Order of Lenin, one for Victory in Khalkhin Gol[5] – a very rare medal – medals from the Russian Empire period, including an honor cross "To the Participant of the Military Parade in Odessa," the only parade in which the Russian Emperor took part. I don't remember all of the medals; there were many. In a separate box, there was a handgun, a small beautiful Walther with an inscription, "To Major Karapetian from the People's Commissar of Defense Klim Voroshilov." I didn't know that my grandfather had participated in all the wars – from WWI to WWII. It turned out that I didn't know anything about him. In the 1920s, he was the first communications signalman in Armenia. And I found this out incidentally, simply because I came to visit him that day.

I did well in college; I took it a lot more seriously than the first time around. The dean's office made me the class leader, given my good grades and my service in the armed forces. I provided for myself financially. As а straight-A student, I was getting a higher stipend, and in addition, I had taken a part-time job at our department lab. Later, I also got a second part-time job as a security guard at the wood carving museum. I ended up there thanks to my friend who already worked at the museum and got me in as his shift reliever.

The museum turned out to be a very interesting place, a bohemian club of sorts where the artistic elite got together over a cup of coffee. I met a great deal of fascinating and charming individuals there. Sometimes, we organized dinner parties at night, right there at the museum, which the director, Henrik Solakhian, knew nothing about. A few times, we made kabobs on the mangal exhibited at the museum. Once, we forgot to clean it before putting it back on display, and the director caught us after he accidentally rubbed against it and his clothes got smeared with soot. Of course, he made a scene, but he didn't fire us. After that, we bought a regular mangal, and the director gladly joined us for our evening cookouts.

Working at the museum was perfect for a student. It provided an income and human interaction and the right conditions to study. I needed the income badly: in December of my freshman year, my father passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack. He never complained about his heart, was in good physical shape, and rarely got sick. I loved and deeply respected my father. His good name helped me in my life for a long time afterward – people's attitude towards him was projected onto his sons. This meant a lot in tiny Karabakh, where everybody knew each other. I am glad that he saw me go to college again…

Return to Karabakh

I finished my third year in Electrical Engineering at the Yerevan Polytechnic Institute with straight A's and, to everyone's surprise, transferred to the distance learning program. I passed my fourth year finals ahead of schedule and went to Karabakh. The department head, the dean, and some of my professors begged me not to do it. They couldn't understand why a bright student – with great potential to stay at the department and pursue his doctoral degree – would drop everything and leave for Karabakh. They wanted to hear a compelling argument. But there was no specific reason, even though there was a combination of factors behind that deliberate and rational decision. By that time, I had already completed the basic course in fundamental sciences, and the next two years were meant to acquire a narrow specialization in electrical machines. There were no jobs for that in Karabakh. It meant that I would either have to stay and work at the Electrical Engineering Department or at some factory in Armenia. I didn't like either option, as I didn't plan to move to Armenia for good. Besides, I realized that I learn quickly and have a lot of spare time on my hands. My personal pace was faster than the one laid out in the academic curriculum. I figured that I could accomplish a lot more in those two years in addition to the academic program.

I continued my college education remotely: I self-studied in Karabakh, then traveled to Yerevan for a month. I took all my exams for the year – most of them ahead of schedule – and then returned home again. I graduated with honors, but not without a single B – in Thermal Engineering. I remember the Yerevan Polytechnic Institute of the 1970s as a top university with a solid teaching staff. To this day, the head of our department, who couldn't convince me to stay, believes that I left to organize the Karabakh movement. I wasn't able to convince him otherwise…

Moving back to Stepanakert very quickly led to another important event in my life: marriage.

I had attended the same preschool with my future spouse. After that, we went to the same grade school, where we were in the same group for four years. Then we split up for a while but ended up at the same school again, this time in parallel groups. I had always liked her, but there was no tender teenage connection between us – Bella hardly noticed me. I was overly quiet and didn't get involved in school activities. She, on the contrary, was very active and an exemplary straight-A student. After graduation, I lost sight of her, but fate brought us back together when I came home for my college break with a firm decision to enroll in distance learning. We met in town accidentally. I was driving my car and noticed her going up the street. I was happy to see her, so I stopped and offered her a ride home. We hadn't seen each other for a long time, and I didn't know anything about her life or what she had done after graduating from school. We talked for a while and decided to stay in touch, exchanging phone numbers.

We got married in the fall of 1980. I proposed, we got engaged, and then came the memorable wedding. At its very start, Victor, my already tipsy brother-in-law, opened a bottle of rosé champagne and spilled it all over the bride, from head to toe. Bella was upset, and I got pretty angry. The only way to save the wedding and Victor was to party all night.

We lived at my place – first with my mother and Valera's family. Then Valera, who worked at the Soviet Karabakh newspaper, received an apartment and they moved out. Our older son, Sedrak, was born in 1981. Our daughter, Gayane, and our son, Levon, were born at two-year intervals.

Bella turned out to have an exceptionally strong character. She never complained and went through the toughest of times silently. Sincere and affectionate, my wife always made an effort to help others. She knew how to build relationships and ensure a peaceful atmosphere at home.

I have always had a happy family life. Why? I never asked myself that question. I believe that there is no point in scrutinizing relationships or analyzing them. If you're comfortable, if you don't look for reasons to come home late, if you're ready to dedicate your Sundays to the family and don't consider it a great sacrifice, then continue living your life as you are, without overthinking what's good and bad about it. Take it as it is; otherwise, you will imagine problems that don't really exist.

Komsomol[6]

It was 1980. I got a job as an engineering technologist at the electrotechnical plant (during Soviet times, we had this type of a plant that produced lighting equipment). But I didn't get to work there for too long – less than six months. One day, I got a phone call from the director's assistant, who said, "You have been requested at the Komsomol city committee. The first secretary wishes to see Kocharyan urgently." "Me? He wants to see me? Why? How does he even know about me?" I asked. It turned out that the Komsomol city committee was looking for new cadres, and the plant recommended me.

I had nothing to do with Komsomol, really. Of course, I was a member of Komsomol, but so was everyone! I was never civically engaged. Moreover, I never liked Komsomol's leaders, as I considered them careerists. I always had a strained relationship with the leaders of the Komsomol organizations. I even had a conflict with one of them at the Yerevan Polytechnic Institute. Once, he and his entourage entered my dorm room without knocking. It was some sort of an inspection. I was sitting on my bed reading and, apparently, gave him an unfriendly look as I didn't appreciate the intrusion. The Komsomol leader noticed it and barked in a commanding tone: "You need to get up when your superiors enter the room!" I ignited instantly, "Listen, chief, didn't they teach you to knock first? It's not going to end well if I get up!" One of his men whispered something in his ear. He threatened to summon me in front of the committee to discuss my unbecoming behavior and left. Of course, he didn't do it; the guys told me that the discussion was deemed unnecessary. The Komsomol bosses behaved overly politely around me after the incident.

Interestingly, despite my bluntness and negativity toward the Komsomol bosses, they didn't express any resentment toward me. On the contrary, they always tried to get me involved in civic activity, saying, "You are a straight-A student. Students respect you and listen to you. You could be a good Komsomol leader!" True, I always excelled at my studies. I enjoyed math, analytical mechanics, and physics. I solved all the problems in the textbook with ease. Other students asked me for help, and I always helped them. Besides, I had a good company of friends at the dorm. We combined hard studying with active free time. We poked fun at each other and made our lives enjoyable. I could sense that my classmates respected me for my knowledge, actions, and character. But civic activity? Why do they always try to get me involved? I didn't want it at all! I never liked public visibility. Even as a child, I was shy, never took part in any school plays, and avoided loud gatherings. I would rather spend time hiking in the mountains or walking around in the woods with a rifle, alone or with very close friends.

In summary, I had never been attracted to Komsomol work, and yet, suddenly, I was being invited to the city committee. I had to go.

I went to the office of Komsomol's First Secretary Victor Kocharyan, and he offered me a job. He told me that they were looking for cadres, I was recommended, they saw a fit, and there was an urgent vacancy for a Komsomol secretary at one of the local enterprises. I declined categorically. "No way," I said. "I am an engineer by training, I've never done any Komsomol work, I have no idea what it is, and I don't want it – it's not for me!" He replied, "Well, think about it. It's a good career opportunity. Don't rush to say no. Think about it and tell me in a couple of days…"

Of course, I thought about the proposition. I understood that it was not only a new path for me, but also a good opportunity for career growth. My work was calm and boring; it wasn't straining or exciting. What does a technologist usually do? He spends several hours on the production floor, ensuring technological compliance. I tried to diversify my work, to think about production changes and improvements. I wanted to do a bit more than what was required of me.

Within a month of our conversation, Victor Kocharyan, with whom I shared a last name and who had offered me a job at the Komsomol city committee, secured a position at the KGB and eventually became the head of the Nagorno-Karabakh Republic's Special Services. Later in life, we became family – he married my sister-in-law. But none of this had happened yet, as we had only just met for the first time. I didn't know him and couldn't imagine that destiny had brought us together for a long time.

Since I didn't show up, I received another phone call from the Komsomol city committee a few days later, asking, "So, what have you decided?" I grunted something along the lines that I hadn't decided anything, that I didn't know. But I thought to myself, "Darn, what if this is something that I really need?" I didn't believe in all that ideology by that time, but… I didn't have any skills for working with people. This was an excellent opportunity to acquire them and learn something new – something that I had never tried before and had avoided all my life. Suddenly, I saw a challenge for myself. It attracted me and wound me up.

The next day, I called the city committee and said, "You know, let's try it," and ended up in a Komsomol job. All my friends were shocked. They knew me very well, and they couldn't imagine that I would agree to it. I remember that it bothered me. I had always resented Komsomol bosses, and yet, had I suddenly decided to become one myself? But it was a conscientious decision, free of any ideological considerations. That decision turned out to be a pivotal point in my life.

I was appointed as the head of the most stagnant and confusingly structured Komsomol organization in town. It was at an enterprise with a cryptic name – Consumer Services Complex (CSC). No one wanted the job, and the position had gone vacant for two years. It was considered a failure. All of my predecessors were censured and fired soon after their appointment. It was indeed a difficult job. The CSC consisted of many different ateliers, cafeterias, and laundromats scattered around town. A team spirit naturally comes about at any factory or plant, where workers come to work together at the same location. My Komsomol members worked at different locations, did not know each other, and never saw each other. It appeared that no Komsomol work had been done for a long time at the CSC.

I didn't expect this at all. I thought, "Damn it, what do I do with all of this? What does 'Komsomol work' even mean, and how do I do it?" I started from scratch: I simply got to know people. This was a great opportunity to build communications skills. I would go to a workplace, greet everyone, and introduce myself, "I'm the new head of the Komsomol organization, Robert Kocharyan. Where is so-and-so? Not at his workplace? Where can I find him?" As it turned out, it wasn't very hard. I simply had to smile more and be prepared to talk to everyone, not just those I liked. I quickly managed to put together a pretty dynamic team of Komsomol members.

As my first task, I decided to have everyone meet each other. So, I told my guys, "Why don't we get everyone together for a relaxing evening? They have never seen each other!" We soon found a meeting place – all the banquet halls in town belonged to our complex. Moreover, our people serviced and maintained all these venues, so we didn't have difficulty organizing the meeting, either. So, we all got together and spent an evening with each other – everyone loved it. And that's how it all started.

I soon discovered certain skills that I never knew I had. First as a child, then in school, later in the army, and finally in college, I intuitively sensed that people listened to me, that I could influence them, captivate, and unify them around me. But now, it became my main goal, and it came to me naturally, without any effort. After a while, the organization actually began to work! And it happened without any ideology, as I never made any pompous speeches.

My efforts brought good results, and in eight months or so, I was offered a promotion and became an instructor in the Organizational Department (Orgotdel) of the Komsomol City Party Committee (Gorkom). This was a different type of work, primarily administrative. I spent most of my time on the phone, talking to countless local committees. As a result, I got to know many new people and our town very well.

But changes kept coming: in about a year, I was promoted to second secretary of the Komsomol city committee (a chain of promotions took place: the second secretary became first secretary, and the previous secretary was promoted to the regional committee). I had significantly greater responsibilities in the new position. I was responsible for youth sports in the city, tourism, and military-patriotic education. Sports competitions, youth summer camps, Zarnitsa and Orlyonok children's war games – the list of events was impressive, and my schedule was full. In reality, Komsomol work is not about sitting around in an office and issuing endless resolutions at all.

I was busy working with real people from early in the morning until late at night. By then, I was starting to like it. Komsomol turned out to be a great training ground. It provided a truly dynamic work environment, genuinely developed leadership skills, valued initiative, and constantly made me search for new ideas. Of course, I needed energy to be able to implement my new ideas, but I always had an abundance of energy.

I also had more formal responsibilities: I regularly chaired plenary sessions and meetings of the Komsomol Bureau. As part of the necessary routine, we approached them responsibly but without enthusiasm. It was the 80s; no one in the USSR believed in a bright communist future, and the lines for butter, meat, and toilet paper were no inspiration for heroic deeds. At Soyuzpechat's state-owned newspaper stands, Communist Party publications like the Communist and the Agitator were sold with the popular Soviet Screen magazine as a mandatory side-purchase. At the Komsomol city committee, all party functionaries, with rare exceptions, viewed ideology in very practical terms – like you would treat the user manual for a washing machine. Nowhere in our town did people tell more Brezhnev jokes than in our office building. And the best impersonation of Leonid Brezhnev was done by the head of the Organizational Department of the City Communist Party Committee.

The communist ideology that served as the foundation and binding agent for the entire country was decomposing everywhere, while the aging leadership of the party was unable to offer anything new and appealing.

At the time, the position of the first secretary of our city's Communist Party Committee was occupied by Zaven Movsesian – a good and kind man who climbed the career ladder from factory worker to party leader. We all respected him very much. Once, after a plenary session, he invited me to his office. He said, "I see you work very well, with enthusiasm – you have a lot of energy. But you don't cite resolutions of the Central Committee, nor do you quote Brezhnev." I got a little tense – indeed, I avoided the phrase "as Leonid Ilyich said" and confessed, "I can't bring myself to say it." Movsesian sighed, stared at me, and very softly, in a father-like manner, said, "Do you think I like it? But you have to say it at least once… We are supposed to do it." This man worked honestly, trying to be as useful as he could be in his position.

I spent two years in the position of second secretary of the Komsomol, then joined the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) and was promoted to the position of instructor of the party's city committee. From there, I was sent to the silk factory as secretary of its Communist Party Committee. The silk factory was the largest production facility in the region – as they said at the time, the "flagship of our industry." This position reminded me of my first Komsomol job – everyone who was sent there in recent years was "rewarded" with party censures at the end.

At the factory, I was met with a massive workforce – good but complex. They were highly qualified professionals who knew the value of their work. Some of my weavers were recipients of the Hero of Socialist Labor title and many other government orders and medals. One of them was a member of the Regional Committee of the Communist Party, and another was a deputy of the Supreme Council of the USSR. Our engineering staff was so strong that our specialists were invited to other facilities in Azerbaijan when local engineers had difficulty installing new machinery or tuning high-tech equipment. And here I came along – the new young party organizer, sent from the city committee. At first, people were cautious: "What is he going to do? Will he act like a big boss? Will he become one of us?"

I had a good advantage, though – I worked at the factory for two years as an electrician. I knew many of the employees, understood the specificity of their work and knew the technological cycle. You can't earn the loyalty of your employees without a thorough understanding of the production process, no matter which management position you hold. On the other hand, it is absolutely unacceptable to get too chummy with workers. I think this became the biggest problem for my predecessor.

A solid engineering education combined with production experience helped me become part of the team and establish a good collaborative relationship with the workers and engineering personnel.

In short, I liked my job.

I gained new knowledge and skills that would become very helpful in the future. I learned how to understand the collective psychology of people, especially of people from an unfamiliar social setting. I learned how to interact with them properly. In contrast to the Consumer Services Complex, where I started my Komsomol career, there was a strong sense of comradeship at the silk factory. Every morning, everyone entered through the same door; they all knew each other and cared strongly about reaching their collective production goals.

I don't believe in class theory, but experience has shown me that workers' solidarity does exist, despite all internal contradictions. I think it's what, in contemporary terminology, psychologists refer to as "corporate solidarity" – the sense of belonging to a collective body that gives each member additional strength. This strength revealed itself very soon in Karabakh when the Karabakh movement took shape and instantly gained robust momentum.

PART II
KARABAKH

CHAPTER 5
BEGINNING OF THE LIBERATION MOVEMENT

Collecting Signatures for Reunification with Armenia

In the spring of 1987, everything began with peaceful and legal actions: collecting signatures for an appeal to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CC CPSU), to Mikhail Gorbachev to transfer control over the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast (Region) from Azerbaijan to Armenia. A similar process of collecting signatures and submitting an appeal to the Central Committee occurred during Khrushchev's time, during the thaw of 1966–1967, and was brutally suppressed by the authorities. But this time, the situation was radically different: it wasn't us who suddenly began to demand change – it was the changes that broke into our lives. They came rapidly, bearing slogans like "democracy," "perestroika," and "glasnost." All of a sudden, we could talk about everything that was wrong. For the first time in many decades, we hoped that we – ordinary people – could influence these processes.

It was a fascinating period, one full of hope. The 1st Congress of People's Deputies of the USSR was in session, and people all over the country were glued to their TVs and radios following the live simulcast. Captivating, well-educated legislators spoke openly from the Congress podium about things that people preferred to whisper about in the privacy of their kitchens a year ago. They instantly became stars, got invited to television talk shows, and their interviews appeared in the press. Suddenly, television, newspapers, and magazines became extremely popular, attracting millions of viewers and readers. In the mornings, lines formed in front of Soyuzpechat newspaper kiosks, and most popular publications had sold out by noon.

It was like someone had suddenly opened all the windows in a stuffy room, causing everyone to get lightheaded from the excess of political oxygen. This unusual freedom brought about a belief that we could choose, make decisions, and chart our own future – our Artsakh's future. Yes, we truly believed that the changes were for the better, and that our lives and our state structures would improve.

Parallel to this, an erosion of power was also taking place. Discreet at first, it slowly gained momentum. In a highly centralized, ideology-driven, and ethnically diverse country, the government itself was breaking familiar stereotypes and barriers. However, it didn't realize that it was also eroding the very principles of the USSR's form of government. As a result, the country was becoming ungovernable right in front of our eyes. The planned economy was in freefall, while intensifying centrifugal forces made the process irreversible.

I am often asked, "Didn't the fall of the Soviet Union start with the Karabakh movement?" and I answer, "No, of course not." The conflicts simply surfaced where they had always existed and in places where tensions were the highest. Throughout Karabakh's history, the weakening of central power inevitably led to intensifying ethnic disputes. Any political turmoil at the center that disturbed the regular course of events and created a perception of chaos resulted in the desire of the people of Karabakh to reunite with Armenia. It happened in 1917–1920: after the revolution and the fall of the Russian monarchy, Karabakh became the arena for clashes between the Armenians and the Azerbaijanis. In Tsarist Russia, the administrative territorial division was structured around guberniyas (provinces or governorates), without taking into account the ethnic make-up of its territories. Karabakh was part of the Elisabethpol guberniya, while most of today's Armenia was part of the Erivan guberniya. The fall of the Russian Empire was followed by the creation of newly independent states in the South Caucasus. Each of them declared its borders, which, in some territories, overlapped: Baku believed that the borders should be laid according to the administrative division lines of the fallen Russian Empire, while Yerevan laid its borders along the boundaries where ethnic Armenians resided. Armenians defended their approach, since it gave them an opportunity to fulfill their centuries-old aspirations for a unified Armenian state. However, when the Red Army entered Baku and Yerevan, the Karabakh dispute was resolved in Baku's favor. Nagorno-Karabakh found itself part of Azerbaijan, even though its overwhelming majority was Armenian.

We, the people of Karabakh, always felt that our interests were being ignored and violated. Having an autonomous status within Azerbaijan didn't shield us against Baku's administrative domination. During the Soviet years, Baku's primary efforts in Karabakh were directed at settling Azerbaijanis there to change the area's ethnic composition. It seriously alarmed us because we had already seen an almost complete de-Armenianization of Nakhichevan. Soviet authorities looked at any relations between the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast (Region), NKAO, and Armenia with suspicion and tried to curtail them as much as possible. The enforcement of Soviet atheism was being applied quite selectively. The last church in Karabakh was closed in the 1920s, and all Armenian churches, which Azerbaijani historians referred to as 'Albanian', stood without crosses. In contrast, a mosque functioned in neighboring Aghdam during the entire Soviet period. We even had to constantly fight for our right to speak our own language. Faced with manifestations of inequality everywhere, we felt like masters in Karabakh, but strangers in Azerbaijan.

Once, I characterized our relations with Azerbaijanis as 'ethnic incompatibility' and was harshly criticized for it for a long time. Perhaps it was a poor choice of words, indeed, but it was obvious that our peoples have entirely different ethnicity and religious and cultural traditions; put simply, we live differently. We have different preferences and ideas regarding government models in our countries, and we have different geopolitical priorities. Therefore, I believed that we could become good neighbors, but we definitely should not be subordinate to each other.

The desire to reunite with Armenia existed during the entire Soviet period of our history. Inconspicuous from the outside, this desire lay dormant in Armenian society, ready to awaken at any moment given the right circumstances. The initiative to collect signatures began in Yerevan and very quickly took over Karabakh. The process was unleashed by Armenian intellectual elites, primarily descendants of Karabakh who lived outside the region for different reasons. Everyone spoke of Zori Balayan[7], Bagrat Ulubabian[8], and Igor Muradian[9], but the movement didn't have a formal structure. It was spontaneous, like a wildfire: once ignited in a dry forest, it spreads rapidly and uncontrollably, swallowing everything in its path. At the time, I was still working as secretary of the Silk Factory Party Committee. Life flowed slowly – everything was calm, understandable, stable, and predictable. There was a good team spirit at the factory, like one big, tight-knit family.

And then, one day, two workers approached me and said, "Everywhere, people are collecting signatures to appeal to the Central Committee for the reunification of Nagorno-Karabakh with Armenia. We also want to do it at our factory – we are the largest business enterprise in the region. Do you object?" Of course, I didn't object. I knew what was happening in town, even though I didn't give it any significance yet. "Let's do it," I said. "If they are doing it everywhere else, perhaps this time it will happen." I discovered that almost everyone at our factory signed the petition in a couple of days. Within a week, all Stepanakert enterprises signed it, and by the end of the month, everyone in our city! Very quickly, in about three months or so, nearly the entire Armenian adult population of Karabakh had signed the petition – with the exception of very senior Communist Party officials, who didn't dare do it given their positions but nevertheless still treated the process with sympathy, empathized with the people, and supported them.

Signatures were collected secretly, so it's hard to say who led the process – there was no formal structure behind it (at least I never heard of it). There weren't any apparent leaders, either, but perhaps Arkady Karapetian stood out the most (later, during the war, he led the formation of the self-defense forces). Meanwhile, the movement initiated by a small group of enthusiasts grew exponentially and soon embraced the entire population. This bright, astonishing process captivated our people on a deep emotional level and united us. Optimism overwhelmed us; people sincerely hoped that they would be heard in the framework of perestroika and glasnost. We were convinced that the truth was on our side, and we hadn't done anything anti-Soviet – we had simply signed a lawful petition to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the USSR, to its Politburo, and to Gorbachev.

On December 1, 1987, our Karabakh delegation went to Moscow and submitted the petition – signed by several tens of thousands of people – to the Central Committee of the USSR Communist Party. In it, we explained our position, citing documents on the history, ethnography, and culture of Nagorno-Karabakh in defense of our views. A month later, in January 1988, another delegation went to Moscow. Each delegation attempted to present a simple idea to the central government: there was a problem, a serious problem, that had already surfaced, could not be ignored, and needed to be addressed. This could be done gradually, there could be different solutions, but we couldn't pretend that it didn't exist. Otherwise, we would witness uncontrollable repercussions. The Central Committee said they understood the situation, but they could only look into its socio-economic dimension. They told us that there were some 20 similar issues in the USSR, and solving one could trigger a chain reaction. Moscow's position wasn't encouraging. On the contrary, it only added to the tension, mobilized our people, and pushed their natural stubbornness to its limit. Eventually, all that uncontainable energy burst out, drove people into the streets, and erupted into public demonstrations and mass protests.

Peaceful Demonstrations

Unsanctioned, spontaneous mass street rallies were unheard of in the Soviet Union. The last one probably took place during the times of the Russian Empire. The first demonstrations were peaceful, with sincere and naïve slogans – we all still believed that the central government's decision would be fair. People carried banners saying, "Lenin, Party, Gorbachev." The number of protestors grew with each passing day. We all felt that events of great historic importance were taking place, and everyone wanted to be a part of it.

Even the highest government officials, who – as one would suspect – should have been more cautious, took part in the demonstrations. The reality was such that if, for example, the first secretary of a Regional Communist Party Committee didn't rally with the people in front of the party headquarters, he would instantly lose all credibility.

Informal leaders began to appear – people who were brave enough to speak at the rallies, analyze the situation, and guide the people. Some of them had radical views, while others were more moderate. People knew many of them and respected them for their track records; they trusted them and paid attention to their words. They were plant managers, party leaders, college professors, writers, and representatives of factory workers.

An exciting process, unusual for the Soviet Union, of organizing a movement began to take shape. An informal group of leaders began to make all the decisions about the rallies. They decided when and where to hold them and how to ensure people's safety. No one elected us; it all happened naturally. We were joined together by a shared activity. It was winter, and it was freezing. We made sure that people stayed warm – we brought hot water, made tea for everyone, and distributed food. Paramedics organized a stationary ambulance service – just in case.

We got together at any suitable location (at work or at someone's house, for example), discussed the current situation, and made decisions. At the same time, general assemblies and party congresses were taking place at all Karabakh workplaces. The main topic of discussion was the same burning issue that interested everyone: the transition of Nagorno-Karabakh to Armenia's authority. Moreover, all meetings concluded with the same resolution: to ask the higher authorities to rule in favor of NKAO's reunification with Armenia. These resolutions were passed along to the plenary sessions and party congresses of the regional central committees, city central committees, and congresses of people's deputies at all levels, and all were adopted unanimously.

Azerbaijan's central authorities tried to change our minds. Different party and government officials came from the republic's Communist Party Central Committee and tried to convince us to stop holding public rallies. They didn't feel very confident, though. We thought that the central government was lost and didn't know how to react to the situation.

In mid-February, Moscow sent in the army. At the same time, Baku reinforced its police force with additional personnel from neighboring Azerbaijani regions. This attempt at coercion went against the declared policies of the central government and incited a wave of outrage and negative vibes toward the Moscow authorities. Now the entire town took to the streets, and the rallies went on non-stop. The primary demand was to convene the Council of the People's Deputies of NKAO and make a decision to reunite with Armenia. A signature campaign was initiated among the legislators to convene the extraordinary session on February 20, with only one item on the agenda: Karabakh's secession from Azerbaijan and its unification with Armenia. Collecting enough signatures didn't require much effort in that situation.

On February 19, Azerinform – Azerbaijan's state information agency – announced that the Central Committee of the Soviet Union's Communist Party had not discussed any territorial matters and didn't plan to discuss them in the future. In protest, Karabakh announced a general strike. A strike was unthinkable in the Soviet Union – a truly extraordinary development. The very next day, a delegation arrived in Stepanakert – Kyamran Bagirov[10], Viktor Yashin[11], and some other members of the Central Committee of Azerbaijan's Communist Party – to prevent the session of the Council of People's Deputies.

Bagirov instructed his security services to undermine the gathering. All day long, we used detours to move legislators, ensuring that the session took place. As soon as they got to Stepanakert, we provided them with the necessary material and talking points for on-the-floor arguments. Back then, legislatures were formed at the directive of the Communist Party, using quotas for workers and farmers, many of whom were not great public speakers. By the evening, we were able to get a quorum, and at 9 p. m., the session started. The square in front of the parliament building was overcrowded with people. Unexpectedly, Bagirov, Yashin, and Boris Kevorkov[12], as well as members of the Bureau of the Region's Communist Party Committee, arrived for the session. Bagirov was the first to speak. He talked about the brotherly friendship of our two peoples, our happy, peaceful coexistence in Azerbaijan during the past 70 years, and that a small group of irresponsible nationalists was instigating reckless actions. He promised to swiftly correct all the mistakes that Azerbaijan made in Karabakh. He stressed that the session of the legislature had no authority to address territorial issues and that Karabakh would remain part of Azerbaijan. Yashin spoke along the same lines.

In response, the legislators spoke passionately about the systematic undermining of Karabakh's interests. They said that the session had full authority to decide on any issue involving NKAO. Bagirov and Yashin often interrupted the speakers, promising that all the region's problems would be at the center of Baku's attention. Nonetheless, they couldn't change the course of the session. Having lost hope of getting what they wanted, they left. The session made the historic decision for Karabakh to cede from Azerbaijan and reunite with Armenia in their absence.

On the following day, February 21, the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Soviet Union's Communist Party (CPSU) passed a resolution – "On developments in Nagorno-Karabakh" – in which our demand to become part of the Armenian SSR was labeled as "adopted as a result of actions of extremists and nationalists," and that it "contradicted the interests of Azerbaijani SSR and Armenian SSR." Azerbaijani state television and radio immediately announced that the events in NKAO had been caused by "specific extremist groups." But the appeal to the Politburo was adopted during the full session of the regional council of People's Deputies, which was preceded by the decision of party and government bodies of all levels in the region! The Politburo resolution practically labeled all Karabakh Armenians as extremists. We joked that as true communists, we had to conform to the Politburo's assessment.

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Сноски

1

Rozin, Mark – Managing partner at ECOPSY Consulting.

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2

Soviet car brand named after the Russian term for a resident of Moscow.

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3

After 'Snegurochka,' a character in Russian folklore; the name itself translates to 'Snow Maiden' or 'Snow Girl'.

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4

Russian colloquialism – a person who holds a temporary Moscow residence permit issued in connection with work.

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5

Medal "For the Battle at Khalkhin Gol" – After the end of armed conflict in 1939 at the Khalkhin Gol river, the Mongolian government issued the badge "For the Participants at the Battle of Khalkhin Gol," according to the State Great Khural's law of September 16, 1940. This award was presented to both Mongolian and Soviet soldiers. At the end of 1966, the badge attained medal status.

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6

All-Union Leninist Young Communist League

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7

Balayan, Zori Haykovich (b. 1935) – a Soviet and Armenian writer and publicist, politician, and public figure. Active participant in the struggle for the independent Nagorno-Karabakh Republic. People's Deputy of the USSR (1989–1991). Hero of Artsakh.

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8

Ulubabian, Bagrat Arshakovich (1925–2001) – a Soviet and Armenian historian, Ph.D. in History, renowned for his works on the history of Nagorno-Karabakh. Active participant in the Karabakh movement

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9

Muradian, Igor Maratovich (b. 1957) – an Armenian political and public figure, active participant in the Nagorno-Karabakh independence movement. One of the co-founders of the Karabakh Committee.

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10

Baghirov, Kamran Mammad oglu (1933–2000) – Member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). From December 1982 until May 1988, First Secretary of the Azerbaijan SSR Communist Party Central Committee.

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11

Yashin, Victor Mikhailovich – advisor in the Propaganda Department of the CPSU Central Committee.

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12

Kevorkov, Boris Sarkisovich (1932–1998) – First Secretary of the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast (NKAO) Communist Party (1973–1988).

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