The wannabe nation of Nagorno-Karabakh

With a flag, parliament, and prime minister, this 'country' is all dressed up but has nowhere to go.

By Nicole Itano | Correspondent of The Christian Science Monitor

from the May 30, 2007 edition

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Stepanakert, self-declared republic of Nagorno-Karabakh - Anoushavan Danielyan's office is resplendent with the signs of his high post. A red, blue, orange, and white flag adorns a corner. A large seal depicts a regal bird, above whose head floats a crown. Plastic flowers sit in a vase. [Editor's note: The original version omitted the fourth color of the Nagorno-Karabakh flag.]

Outside, in a grim corridor that has seen better days, a sign indicates this is the office of the prime minister of the Nagorno-Karabakh republic.

Never heard of it? Don't worry. That's because it doesn't officially exist.

It's after 9 p.m., but the prime minister is still receiving visitors. Most of the staff have gone home, and his are the only windows in the blocky, Soviet-era structure that still twinkle with light.

It's a long journey from the outside world to this putative nation. There's only one way to Nagorno-Karabakh: a long, winding road from Armenia, six hours from that country's capital, Yerevan. High-ranking government officials sometimes travel by military helicopter, but for ordinary people there's just the road, built with money from the Armenian diaspora after the 1988 to 1994 war between ethnic Armenians and Azerbaijan.

The war won the ethnic Armenian Karabakh de facto independence and purged the region – which lies wholly within the borders of Azerbaijan – of its Azeri overlords. But it also laid waste to the land and infrastructure. More than a million refugees – 800,000 Azerbaijanis and 300,000 Armenians – still live in exile.

As the head of government, Mr. Danielyan is rebuilding the region, which is about the size of Utah's Great Salt Lake with a population of 100,000. Though the guns have largely fallen silent, the war isn't really over. Azerbaijan still claims Nagorno-Karabakh, and, for now, the international community agrees. So the legions of aid workers and international investment that normally flood postwar zones have largely stayed away. That has left the prime minister – a serious, professorial man with a glossy bald head and bushy moustache – with all the responsibility of running a country and few of the perks.

He's comfortable with the arcane world of budgetary mandates and foreign direct investment: His shelves are piled with manuals from international organizations and statistical compilations. He pulls out a series of heavy books, covered in Armenian script and containing government statistics on Karabakh (example: The region grows wheat, grapes, potatoes, and garbanzo beans, yet must import 55 to 60 percent of its food). "We observe all international standards," he says patting the books with pride.

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