Firebombing press freedom
By NIKOL PASHINYAN

Independent Bangladesh, Bangladesh
Dec 24 2004

Armenia

Late last month, while putting the finishing touches on the next
edition of our newspaper, Haykakan Zhamanak (The Armenian Times),
we heard an explosion outside our office. Staff members rushed to
find my car on fire. That explosion was not unanticipated – nor was
the announcement by Armenia’s police that the car had caught fire
due to technical problems. But the real problem is censorship, for
the explosion was but the latest offensive in Armenia’s hidden war
against the press. For us the battle for press freedom began in 1999,
soon after founding our newspaper, then named Oragir (Diary). It made
an instant impact, but not in the way we hoped. Throughout 1999 there
were more court cases against Oragir than against all other Armenian
media combined since independence in 1991.

In one case, the prosecutor’s office brought criminal charges against
me as editor-in-chief. I was accused of slandering an Armenian
political figure and of insulting a state official. As a result, the
court sentenced me to one year in prison. By a lucky twist, however,
on the day the court ruled, Lord Russell Johnston, Chairman of the
Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe, was in Armenia. Lord
Johnston expressed his opinion about my case in his talks with the
authorities, which then decided not to send me to prison. I remained
free, only to be monitored by the police.

A second trial against our newspaper had worse consequences: a $25,000
fine (a huge sum here) based on allegations that we had damaged the
reputation of the Mika Armenia Company, controlled by the so-called
Karabakh clan that helps rule Armenia. The court’s verdict was based
on falsified documents. Following the verdict, bailiffs confiscated our
equipment, prohibited the publishing house from printing our newspaper,
and, most importantly, seized our business bank accounts, rendering
us unable to pay the fine. These events were initiated by a court
wrangle with Serzh Sargsyan, then the Minister of National Security
and Internal Affairs. We demanded an apology for his impugning our
paper’s reputation; he accused of us of libel. These manipulations
worked. Oragir was closed down, which forced us to appear under the
name Haykakan Zhamanak.

When my time under police supervision ended, the prosecutor’s office
quickly brought a new criminal case of slander against me. This time,
Armenia’s chief of civil aviation had sued me. Investigations lasted
several months, before pressure from international organisations and
public opinion forced the prosecutor to drop the charges. Later,
after his dismissal from his post, that same civil aviation chief
confessed that Armenian President Robert Kocharyan had advised
him to file his lawsuit. At a press conference just hours after my
car exploded, I announced my suspicion that the explosion had been
organised by Gagik Tsarukyan, an MP nicknamed “Dodi Gago” (“dod”
means stupid in Armenian) and one of the country’s richest men and a
close friend of the president’s family. Many Armenians believe that
Tsarukyan has carte blanche to do whatever he wants, when he wants.
Indeed, he even gets to write his own history. For although Gagik
Tsarukyan was convicted of a sexual crime in the Soviet era, two
years ago Armenia’s courts exonerated him by vacating the decision of
the Soviet court. Indeed, there is something of a taboo on writing
about Tsarukyan, and with good reason: not only is he rich, but
he also controls an army of obedient skinheads. Armenia frequently
sees skinheads attacking reporters covering opposition rallies and
once severely beating a leading opposition politician. Five years
ago, Tsarukyan himself led his thugs in a break-in at our office,
taking my staff hostage for several hours. Recently, after reading
some unflattering articles about him in our paper, Tsarukyan tried
to invite me to a meeting. I refused. Armenia’s paramount oligarch
fumed. He promised to punish me, and that he would act the next time
Haykakan Zhamanak criticised any well-known person. The car explosion
occurred the day after we rebuked Armenia’s Police Chief.

None of us are surprised that the police are unwilling to investigate
my car’s explosion. They began to do so only ten days later, when the
fire brigade stated that the fire was likely the result of an explosion
incited by “outside interference.” Such harassment is the everyday
stuff of journalism in what Vladimir Putin calls the “post-Soviet
space.” Armenia may have adopted in 1995 a new Constitution with fine
phrases about freedom of speech, but both the petty harassments and the
mortal threats of the Soviet era remain. Of course, we never believed
that press freedom would come easily. We understood from the start
that we would have to fight for it everyday. But we never imagined
the terrifying lengths to which the state – working hand-in-hand with
the new oligarchic rich – would go to defeat our cause.

We will not be defeated. An incinerated car is a small price to pay
in the battle for freedom.

The writer is Editor-in-chief of Haykakan Zhamanak, an independent
newspaper in Armenia.