There is a saying that people are born the same, yet over time,
desire and temptation can mould a person into something quite
different, even reshaping their characte…
There is a saying that people are born the same, yet over time,
desire and temptation can mould a person into something quite
different, even reshaping their character. Countries, too, undergo
such transformations; once freed from the levers of empires, they
often experience a period of distortion before rediscovering who
they truly are.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Armenia in 1990–91,
declared both sovereignty and independence. But those who held
power at the time succumbed to their own ambitions and to the false
nationalist fantasies seeded into public consciousness, making a
path that led the nation towards a dead end. Today, it is Armenia’s
constitution that stands as the
principal barrier to peace in the South Caucasus.
It is no coincidence that, at the very moment Armenia finds
itself staring into the abyss, Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan now
openly admits that the country needs a new constitution. This need
has existed for many years, but previous political elites, and a
society shaped by decades of misguided ideological propaganda, were
unwilling to face the truth. Time, however, has a habit of
separating illusion from reality. The same authorities that once
occupied Garabagh consoled their public with fantasies of borders
stretching to the seas. Yet these delusions left Armenia isolated
for more than three decades.
As the old saying goes, “Time is the best healer.” Armenia now
recognises that the structures and governance it inherited were
fundamentally flawed. Progress cannot be built on conquest or
mythmaking, but on mutual respect and constructive relations with
neighbours. Even senior American officials have acknowledged this
shift. As US Special Envoy Steve Witkoff put it so pointedly, he
praised President Ilham Aliyev for liberating Garabagh without
pushing into Armenian territory, “though he could have. Aliyev
acted with restraint, demonstrating a magnanimity that few leaders
in such a moment would have shown,” he said at one of his
meetings.
Indeed, if Azerbaijan had wished, Yerevan, Göycha, even Zangazur
could have been taken by force. But that was never Baku’s agenda.
Instead, Azerbaijan repeatedly urged Armenia to embrace a peace
agenda, warning it that the geopolitical chessboard of the South
Caucasus was shifting fast. Armenia may have been blind to the
checkmate awaiting it, but its former patron, Russia, and the far
more perceptive West saw it clearly. Today’s Armenian leadership,
its illusions finally stripped away, is beginning to confront
realities it long dismissed.
This wider awakening forms the essential backdrop to the current
constitutional debate in Yerevan. Pashinyan’s argument is that the
existing constitution, drafted in 1995 and amended twice since, is
viewed by many Armenians as the legacy of discredited regimes. It
lacks organic legitimacy and fails to reflect the citizen as the
true sovereign. His government argues that a new constitution could
create a unified national identity within the boundaries the world
actually recognises, not those that Armenian nationalism once
imagined.
But the constitutional debate is not simply a matter of national
introspection. It sits at the heart of the peace process with
Azerbaijan. Baku has long maintained that Armenia’s constitution,
through references to the 1990 Declaration of Independence,
implicitly asserts territorial claims on Azerbaijan. Pashinyan has
cautiously acknowledged this, signalling his readiness to remove
ambiguity that undermines the peace treaty both sides say they
want.
He has also tied constitutional reform to long-overdue changes
in the justice system. By his own admission, Armenia’s courts
operate in a bubble, detached from public confidence. The
introduction of jury trials is one of several innovations being
considered, a sign that this constitutional debate is also about
modernising the state itself.
A referendum is planned, with a draft expected by 2026 and a
nationwide vote pencilled in for 2027. Yet as with any attempt to
shake up entrenched systems, fierce opposition has emerged. Critics
accuse Pashinyan of capitulation to Azerbaijani demands, while
others see an attempt to consolidate power under the guise of
reform. For now, Armenia’s Justice Minister, Srbuhi Galyan, has
confirmed that work on the draft is underway.
Armenia stands at a crossroads. It can cling to the outdated
narratives that brought it isolation, war, and economic stagnation.
Or it can embrace a constitutional transformation that reflects
geopolitical reality and opens the door to lasting peace. Change is
seldom easy, and there will always be those who prefer to live in
the past. But the writing is on the wall: only through political
maturity and constitutional clarity can Armenia hope to secure a
future defined not by conflict, but by stability, growth, and
genuine sovereignty.
