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Jan 3 2005
A Limbo with No End
by Ruzan Hakobyan
3 January 2005
Sixteen years after they began arriving, there are still 240,000
registered refugees in Armenia. Why are they not accepting Armenian
passports?
YEREVAN, Armenia--It could be viewed as a success. According to the
UN's refugee agency, the UNHCR, 21 percent of refugees in Armenia
have gained Armenian citizenship since 1995. That, says the UNHCR, is
one of the highest rates of voluntary naturalization anywhere in the
world in recent decades.
The total number of naturalizations-65,000-also indicates how huge a
refugee problem Armenia faced just as the Soviet Union was collapsing
and, with it, the Armenian economy. From 1988 to 1994, 360,000 ethnic
Armenians flooded into Armenia first to avoid pogroms in Baku,
Azerbaijan, and then, in a process mirrored in Azerbaijan, to flee
fighting in Nagorno-Karabakh, a region assigned to Azerbaijan by the
Soviet authorities. Another 60,000 moved from regions bordering
Azerbaijan that were heavily shelled during the war.
The strain on a country of 3 million people was huge. The country was
still trying to come to terms with an earthquake in 1988 that killed
25,000 people and displaced 60,000. That time became known as the
`dark years': the earthquake devastated the country's energy system
and that, plus the strain of the Soviet Union's collapse and a
blockade in Azerbaijan, left the country chronically short of
electricity and other basics.
But how much of a success is it that 240,000 refugees remain and have
not been naturalized? The Armenian authorities have little reason not
to give the refugees passports. The refugees were ethnic kin, those
from Nagorno-Karabakh came as the result of a war that partly
reflected a desire for closer ties with Armenia, and most of the
refugees, who came predominantly from cities in Karabakh and
Azerbaijan, had skills to offer. And, while absorbing such a huge
number might be a massive challenge, the pressure has been eased by
the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Armenians over the past
decade.
Refugee in Silikyan, Yerevan.
Courtesy of Onnik Krikorian.
The refugees themselves have compelling reasons to get Armenian
passports. Since 2000, they have not been able to use their old
Soviet passports to travel outside Armenia. Moreover, citizenship
could open the way to better housing.
Over the past 16 years, the hostels and community centers in which
most refugees were placed have fallen into serious, sometimes
disastrous disrepair. Almost a third of the refugees still remain in
community centers and other refugee accommodations. The Armenian
government and international organizations have been building new
housing. The UNHCR, for example, has built 3,200 homes for refugees
throughout Armenia, while the Norwegian Refugee Council is building
100 to 250 houses a year.
But they would have more freedom if they were to become naturalized
Armenians. They could then take over ownership of their temporary
accommodation from the state for free (provided they have lived there
for three or more years).
Silva Ohanyan and her family are among those who have acquired
citizenship. Ever since a pogrom of Armenians in the Azeri city of
Sumgait in 1988, the family has relied heavily on humanitarian aid
and subsidies, but they have managed to buy a small two-room
apartment. For them, Armenia is now home.
A fast-growing number of refugees feel the same. Since the law
allowing refugees to buy their homes was passed in 2000, the number
of naturalizations has soared. In 1999, fewer than 8,000 refugees had
Armenian passports. In 2000, that figure doubled. It is now eight
times higher than it was in 1999.
Why, then, have other refugees refused to apply for citizenship? Does
the 21 percent naturalization rate mean that 79 percent do not see
their future in Armenia?
STRANDED IN LIMBO
For some, particularly the old, it makes no difference whether they
have an Armenian passport or not. They lack the money either to
travel or to buy their own flats.
In a refugee hostel in Yerevan dormitories, Asya and Robert
Mkhitarov, from Baku, live off a combined monthly pension of about
$30. After paying electricity, water, and telephone bills, they are
left with only $15 to last the month. They, too, rely on handouts. `I
was brought up to be proud of my Armenian heritage,' Asya says. `And
even if I had only a roof over my head, I would never think of
leaving Armenia. This is my country.' She now has a passport to prove
it.
Anna Grigorova, 70, also has a passport. She arrived in Armenia after
pogroms in Baku. Today, together with 25 other families, she lives in
a former boardinghouse. A retired economist and widow, she receives
an $8 monthly pension from the Armenian government, forcing her to
rely on handouts from the state and small sums that her niece sends
from Russia. There is no water in the hostel. She has to fetch it
from neighboring buildings. Her room is dark and filthy, with bare
walls and just a few household items. `I had such a beautiful house,
quality furniture. Now look at me. Everything is gone,' she said with
a sad smile.
For other elderly refugees from Azerbaijan living, like Grigorova, on
or below the breadline, the extremely remote hope of compensation
from Azerbaijan is more important than an Armenian passport and
taking over ownership (and maintenance and problems) of run-down
rooms in boarding lodges. If they became Armenian citizens, they
would have to give up all claims to compensation.
For young men, as well, an Armenian passport would bring with it the
prospect of conscription. Others fear losing the humanitarian
assistance that refugees are entitled to, which is significantly more
generous than the welfare benefits that naturalized Armenians can
claim.
Naturalization makes most sense for those of working age. But while
some refugees have settled very well in Armenia, many others still
find it difficult to feel at home in Armenia and to build a new life.
When refugees began to enter Armenia, the local population was
sympathetic and did its best to ease their situation. As their own
economic plight worsened and the locals found themselves in the same
conditions as refugees, their ability to help considerably decreased.
Nonetheless, there remains a strong sense of solidarity with the
refugees. About 100 groups work to help the refugees to settle, find
work, create a cultural life, and deal with welfare issues.
Even so, the refugees remain outsiders, in part because of language.
In Karabakh, Armenians used a distinct dialect of Armenian. In
Azerbaijan, Armenians mainly used Russian, even at home.
Asya Mkhitarova, a Russian teacher, has taught herself excellent
Armenian. But for others, language or dialect remains a major
barrier. `When some locals realize that I am not a local Armenian,
their attitude toward me immediately changes, I can feel that,' says
Aram Asaturov with a hint of bitterness. `I am an Armenian of
Karabakhi origin,' the 65-year-old continues. `I am an Armenian even
if I was born in Azerbaijan and do not speak very good Armenian.'
The Armenian government has never produced a clear and coordinated
policy to deal with the language problems of refugees. So language
courses for refugees `never became commonly available and were not
applied consistently,' says political scientist Alina Topchyan. Where
local government has tried to arrange courses, the drop-out rate has
been high: frequently, there are too few teachers, the range of
knowledge in one classroom is too wide, and the lessons themselves
too unrelated to daily difficulties.
`When I pronounce Armenian words with an accent I feel embarrassed.
So very often, I prefer to speak Russian rather than Armenian,' said
Yulia Khachatryan, who now lives in Echmiatsin. Partly for that
reason, most refugees live in separate communities isolated from the
wider population.
Nostalgia for the better life they had back in Baku and other cities
is a factor for many, leaving them reluctant to adapt to Armenian
culture, speak Armenian, and, most importantly, admit that Armenia is
now their home.
But without the language, they have found it tough to find work. Some
organizations, like Mission Armenia--which has provided about 10,000
refugees with health assistance, social services, legal counseling,
and psychological support--has arranged business, computer,
marketing, and language courses to make refugees competitive on the
labor market. But in a country where the official unemployment rate
is 20 percent and the unofficial rate, according to the UN
Development Program, could be three times as high, they must be very
competitive.
The refugees' problems of adaptation are not just because they have
been transplanted to another country and a different language
environment. Most refugees from Azerbaijan came from urban areas. In
Armenia, most of them were forced to settle in rural areas and take
up farming, a task for which they lack the skills and knowledge.
THE ROAD TO STEPANAKERT
For all refugees, wherever they came from, there is a way out of such
limbo - and it leads to Nagorno-Karabakh. The government of
Nagorno-Karabakh has offered them large sums of money to return or
settle: $300 per person and $600 to buy cattle and get ready for the
farming season, as well as 3,500 square meters of land, electricity
subsidies, free water, and exemption from military service for two
years.
Courtyard in Silikyan, Yerevan. Courtesy of Onnik Krikorian.
But relatively few have taken the offer. According to the Karabakh
Department for Refugees and Internally Displaced Persons, about
25,000 refugees have settled in Karabakh. The Armenian government's
Department for Migration and Refugees (DMR), which is working closely
with the self-declared independent Karabakh republic, says $350
million more in subsidies could enable it to resettle another 50,000
families in as little as three years. The Karabakh government sets
aside some $600,000 a year to build houses for settlers in Karabakh.
But cash and incentives may not be enough. Though the Karabakhi
economy is reviving, it remains weaker than Armenia's. Making a
decent living is tough in Armenia and tougher still in Karabakh. Some
villages have no water or electricity, and the schools are some
distance away. And though the soil is arable and rich, many farmers
cannot afford the equipment to cultivate it.
And for those who are not farmers, there is relatively little work.
That makes a move to Karabakh unappealing, particularly to the
urbanite Armenians from Azerbaijan, a larger group than the number of
Karabakh refugees. Tim Straight of the Norwegian Refugee Council
reports some refugees are unhappy with the houses built for them in
Armenia. `That happens mostly with Bakuians. They are nostalgic about
the conditions they lived in, and naturally a cottage in the Armenian
countryside loses in comparison with an apartment in a capital city.'
A cottage in the countryside of Nagorno-Karabakh has even less
appeal.
Moreover, as DMR refugee department director Ara Haroutunyan points
out, they are already having a hard time adapting to Armenia. A
second resettlement could further aggravate their psychological
dislocation.
And there is another major psychological obstacle: the lack of a
peace settlement creates an uncertainty that may be too great for
refugees to accept.
THE ROAD TO MOSCOW
In any case, there is another road that the refugees can take. Like
many native Armenians, they prefer to take roads that lead abroad,
mainly to Russia, a country where they speak the language and, in
many cases, have relatives. According to DMR data, many of the
240,000 refugees registered in Armenia may not actually be living in
Armenia. Most will have moved to Russia before 2000, when Soviet-era
passports became invalid.
That should be no surprise. The Armenians have always had a sizable
diaspora. An estimated 60 percent of the total 8 million Armenians
worldwide live outside the country, with 1 million each in the United
States and Russia. The exodus from Armenia has been particularly
heavy since the country gained its independence in 1991.
So the naturalization rate--low in absolute terms, albeit high in
relative terms--is distorted by a huge movement of refugees to
Russia.
Larisa Alaverdyan, the state ombudsman for refugee affairs, put it
simply: `Unless favorable conditions are set for working, the
compensation issues are resolved, [and] reconstruction and
development projects are funded, one can say with certainty that
passports will be acquired only by those who are going to leave the
country for making their living elsewhere.'
But that is not entirely the case. Aram Asaturov, the 65-year-old
Karabakhi, says he has decided to apply for citizenship and would
have done so earlier if it weren't so difficult to live in Armenia.
Now that he owns a room in a dormitory and is certain of a roof over
his head, he feels more confident.
The others, too reluctant or too lacking in confidence to become
citizens, will remain stuck in Armenia, waiting to see what happens
next and hoping for the best. The question, `Where do your see
yourself in 10 years?' generates a telling response from most
refugees--vague answers or simply deeply puzzled looks.
Ruzan Hakobyan is a political scientist and freelance journalist
based in Yerevan who specializes in political and cultural issues.
Jan 3 2005
A Limbo with No End
by Ruzan Hakobyan
3 January 2005
Sixteen years after they began arriving, there are still 240,000
registered refugees in Armenia. Why are they not accepting Armenian
passports?
YEREVAN, Armenia--It could be viewed as a success. According to the
UN's refugee agency, the UNHCR, 21 percent of refugees in Armenia
have gained Armenian citizenship since 1995. That, says the UNHCR, is
one of the highest rates of voluntary naturalization anywhere in the
world in recent decades.
The total number of naturalizations-65,000-also indicates how huge a
refugee problem Armenia faced just as the Soviet Union was collapsing
and, with it, the Armenian economy. From 1988 to 1994, 360,000 ethnic
Armenians flooded into Armenia first to avoid pogroms in Baku,
Azerbaijan, and then, in a process mirrored in Azerbaijan, to flee
fighting in Nagorno-Karabakh, a region assigned to Azerbaijan by the
Soviet authorities. Another 60,000 moved from regions bordering
Azerbaijan that were heavily shelled during the war.
The strain on a country of 3 million people was huge. The country was
still trying to come to terms with an earthquake in 1988 that killed
25,000 people and displaced 60,000. That time became known as the
`dark years': the earthquake devastated the country's energy system
and that, plus the strain of the Soviet Union's collapse and a
blockade in Azerbaijan, left the country chronically short of
electricity and other basics.
But how much of a success is it that 240,000 refugees remain and have
not been naturalized? The Armenian authorities have little reason not
to give the refugees passports. The refugees were ethnic kin, those
from Nagorno-Karabakh came as the result of a war that partly
reflected a desire for closer ties with Armenia, and most of the
refugees, who came predominantly from cities in Karabakh and
Azerbaijan, had skills to offer. And, while absorbing such a huge
number might be a massive challenge, the pressure has been eased by
the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Armenians over the past
decade.
Refugee in Silikyan, Yerevan.
Courtesy of Onnik Krikorian.
The refugees themselves have compelling reasons to get Armenian
passports. Since 2000, they have not been able to use their old
Soviet passports to travel outside Armenia. Moreover, citizenship
could open the way to better housing.
Over the past 16 years, the hostels and community centers in which
most refugees were placed have fallen into serious, sometimes
disastrous disrepair. Almost a third of the refugees still remain in
community centers and other refugee accommodations. The Armenian
government and international organizations have been building new
housing. The UNHCR, for example, has built 3,200 homes for refugees
throughout Armenia, while the Norwegian Refugee Council is building
100 to 250 houses a year.
But they would have more freedom if they were to become naturalized
Armenians. They could then take over ownership of their temporary
accommodation from the state for free (provided they have lived there
for three or more years).
Silva Ohanyan and her family are among those who have acquired
citizenship. Ever since a pogrom of Armenians in the Azeri city of
Sumgait in 1988, the family has relied heavily on humanitarian aid
and subsidies, but they have managed to buy a small two-room
apartment. For them, Armenia is now home.
A fast-growing number of refugees feel the same. Since the law
allowing refugees to buy their homes was passed in 2000, the number
of naturalizations has soared. In 1999, fewer than 8,000 refugees had
Armenian passports. In 2000, that figure doubled. It is now eight
times higher than it was in 1999.
Why, then, have other refugees refused to apply for citizenship? Does
the 21 percent naturalization rate mean that 79 percent do not see
their future in Armenia?
STRANDED IN LIMBO
For some, particularly the old, it makes no difference whether they
have an Armenian passport or not. They lack the money either to
travel or to buy their own flats.
In a refugee hostel in Yerevan dormitories, Asya and Robert
Mkhitarov, from Baku, live off a combined monthly pension of about
$30. After paying electricity, water, and telephone bills, they are
left with only $15 to last the month. They, too, rely on handouts. `I
was brought up to be proud of my Armenian heritage,' Asya says. `And
even if I had only a roof over my head, I would never think of
leaving Armenia. This is my country.' She now has a passport to prove
it.
Anna Grigorova, 70, also has a passport. She arrived in Armenia after
pogroms in Baku. Today, together with 25 other families, she lives in
a former boardinghouse. A retired economist and widow, she receives
an $8 monthly pension from the Armenian government, forcing her to
rely on handouts from the state and small sums that her niece sends
from Russia. There is no water in the hostel. She has to fetch it
from neighboring buildings. Her room is dark and filthy, with bare
walls and just a few household items. `I had such a beautiful house,
quality furniture. Now look at me. Everything is gone,' she said with
a sad smile.
For other elderly refugees from Azerbaijan living, like Grigorova, on
or below the breadline, the extremely remote hope of compensation
from Azerbaijan is more important than an Armenian passport and
taking over ownership (and maintenance and problems) of run-down
rooms in boarding lodges. If they became Armenian citizens, they
would have to give up all claims to compensation.
For young men, as well, an Armenian passport would bring with it the
prospect of conscription. Others fear losing the humanitarian
assistance that refugees are entitled to, which is significantly more
generous than the welfare benefits that naturalized Armenians can
claim.
Naturalization makes most sense for those of working age. But while
some refugees have settled very well in Armenia, many others still
find it difficult to feel at home in Armenia and to build a new life.
When refugees began to enter Armenia, the local population was
sympathetic and did its best to ease their situation. As their own
economic plight worsened and the locals found themselves in the same
conditions as refugees, their ability to help considerably decreased.
Nonetheless, there remains a strong sense of solidarity with the
refugees. About 100 groups work to help the refugees to settle, find
work, create a cultural life, and deal with welfare issues.
Even so, the refugees remain outsiders, in part because of language.
In Karabakh, Armenians used a distinct dialect of Armenian. In
Azerbaijan, Armenians mainly used Russian, even at home.
Asya Mkhitarova, a Russian teacher, has taught herself excellent
Armenian. But for others, language or dialect remains a major
barrier. `When some locals realize that I am not a local Armenian,
their attitude toward me immediately changes, I can feel that,' says
Aram Asaturov with a hint of bitterness. `I am an Armenian of
Karabakhi origin,' the 65-year-old continues. `I am an Armenian even
if I was born in Azerbaijan and do not speak very good Armenian.'
The Armenian government has never produced a clear and coordinated
policy to deal with the language problems of refugees. So language
courses for refugees `never became commonly available and were not
applied consistently,' says political scientist Alina Topchyan. Where
local government has tried to arrange courses, the drop-out rate has
been high: frequently, there are too few teachers, the range of
knowledge in one classroom is too wide, and the lessons themselves
too unrelated to daily difficulties.
`When I pronounce Armenian words with an accent I feel embarrassed.
So very often, I prefer to speak Russian rather than Armenian,' said
Yulia Khachatryan, who now lives in Echmiatsin. Partly for that
reason, most refugees live in separate communities isolated from the
wider population.
Nostalgia for the better life they had back in Baku and other cities
is a factor for many, leaving them reluctant to adapt to Armenian
culture, speak Armenian, and, most importantly, admit that Armenia is
now their home.
But without the language, they have found it tough to find work. Some
organizations, like Mission Armenia--which has provided about 10,000
refugees with health assistance, social services, legal counseling,
and psychological support--has arranged business, computer,
marketing, and language courses to make refugees competitive on the
labor market. But in a country where the official unemployment rate
is 20 percent and the unofficial rate, according to the UN
Development Program, could be three times as high, they must be very
competitive.
The refugees' problems of adaptation are not just because they have
been transplanted to another country and a different language
environment. Most refugees from Azerbaijan came from urban areas. In
Armenia, most of them were forced to settle in rural areas and take
up farming, a task for which they lack the skills and knowledge.
THE ROAD TO STEPANAKERT
For all refugees, wherever they came from, there is a way out of such
limbo - and it leads to Nagorno-Karabakh. The government of
Nagorno-Karabakh has offered them large sums of money to return or
settle: $300 per person and $600 to buy cattle and get ready for the
farming season, as well as 3,500 square meters of land, electricity
subsidies, free water, and exemption from military service for two
years.
Courtyard in Silikyan, Yerevan. Courtesy of Onnik Krikorian.
But relatively few have taken the offer. According to the Karabakh
Department for Refugees and Internally Displaced Persons, about
25,000 refugees have settled in Karabakh. The Armenian government's
Department for Migration and Refugees (DMR), which is working closely
with the self-declared independent Karabakh republic, says $350
million more in subsidies could enable it to resettle another 50,000
families in as little as three years. The Karabakh government sets
aside some $600,000 a year to build houses for settlers in Karabakh.
But cash and incentives may not be enough. Though the Karabakhi
economy is reviving, it remains weaker than Armenia's. Making a
decent living is tough in Armenia and tougher still in Karabakh. Some
villages have no water or electricity, and the schools are some
distance away. And though the soil is arable and rich, many farmers
cannot afford the equipment to cultivate it.
And for those who are not farmers, there is relatively little work.
That makes a move to Karabakh unappealing, particularly to the
urbanite Armenians from Azerbaijan, a larger group than the number of
Karabakh refugees. Tim Straight of the Norwegian Refugee Council
reports some refugees are unhappy with the houses built for them in
Armenia. `That happens mostly with Bakuians. They are nostalgic about
the conditions they lived in, and naturally a cottage in the Armenian
countryside loses in comparison with an apartment in a capital city.'
A cottage in the countryside of Nagorno-Karabakh has even less
appeal.
Moreover, as DMR refugee department director Ara Haroutunyan points
out, they are already having a hard time adapting to Armenia. A
second resettlement could further aggravate their psychological
dislocation.
And there is another major psychological obstacle: the lack of a
peace settlement creates an uncertainty that may be too great for
refugees to accept.
THE ROAD TO MOSCOW
In any case, there is another road that the refugees can take. Like
many native Armenians, they prefer to take roads that lead abroad,
mainly to Russia, a country where they speak the language and, in
many cases, have relatives. According to DMR data, many of the
240,000 refugees registered in Armenia may not actually be living in
Armenia. Most will have moved to Russia before 2000, when Soviet-era
passports became invalid.
That should be no surprise. The Armenians have always had a sizable
diaspora. An estimated 60 percent of the total 8 million Armenians
worldwide live outside the country, with 1 million each in the United
States and Russia. The exodus from Armenia has been particularly
heavy since the country gained its independence in 1991.
So the naturalization rate--low in absolute terms, albeit high in
relative terms--is distorted by a huge movement of refugees to
Russia.
Larisa Alaverdyan, the state ombudsman for refugee affairs, put it
simply: `Unless favorable conditions are set for working, the
compensation issues are resolved, [and] reconstruction and
development projects are funded, one can say with certainty that
passports will be acquired only by those who are going to leave the
country for making their living elsewhere.'
But that is not entirely the case. Aram Asaturov, the 65-year-old
Karabakhi, says he has decided to apply for citizenship and would
have done so earlier if it weren't so difficult to live in Armenia.
Now that he owns a room in a dormitory and is certain of a roof over
his head, he feels more confident.
The others, too reluctant or too lacking in confidence to become
citizens, will remain stuck in Armenia, waiting to see what happens
next and hoping for the best. The question, `Where do your see
yourself in 10 years?' generates a telling response from most
refugees--vague answers or simply deeply puzzled looks.
Ruzan Hakobyan is a political scientist and freelance journalist
based in Yerevan who specializes in political and cultural issues.