As part of its research on the humanitarian crises caused by landmines in Azerbaijan, the responsibility imposed by international law on those who laid these mines, and the steps the international community can take to ensure these obligations are fulfilled, the Ankara Center for Crisis and Policy Studies (ANKASAM) presents its interview with Irina Tsukerman, President of Scarab Rising Inc., Editor-in-Chief of The Washington Outsider, and a human rights and national security attorney with extensive experience in the field.
1. Do you think Armenia holds a legal responsibility to clear the landmines it laid in the territories it previously occupied, or at least to provide accurate maps of those minefields?
In the aftermath of armed conflict, landmines often remain as deadly relics of unresolved political disputes and military strategies that outlast their usefulness. The South Caucasus is no exception. With Armenia’s prior control over certain territories in and around Karabakh and the considerable use of landmines during its occupation, a question that continues to echo in both diplomatic salons and legal circles is whether Armenia bears legal responsibility—under international humanitarian law (IHL)—to clear these mines or, at the very least, hand over accurate maps to facilitate demining efforts. Spoiler: the answer is not just “yes” but “yes, with footnotes.”
Let’s unpack this legal labyrinth, shall we?
Under customary international humanitarian law, particularly reflected in the Geneva Conventions and their Additional Protocols, there is a firm duty on parties to a conflict to protect civilians, even after active hostilities have ceased. The laying of landmines—especially of the anti-personnel variety—is not, per se, illegal in all cases. But their use comes with strings attached: namely, a duty to minimize harm to civilian populations and to mark, record, and eventually clear them.
Cue Rule 83 of the ICRC’s Customary IHL database:
- “At the end of active hostilities, parties to a conflict must remove or otherwise render harmless landmines… in areas under their control.”
While Armenia no longer controls these territories, the mines were laid under its watch. Ergo, it doesn’t get a free pass just because it’s packed its bags and left.
Now, you might ask: if Armenia no longer physically controls the territory, can it still be responsible for removing the mines?
Here’s where international law gets spicy.
Even if Armenia isn’t in a position to send out demining squads with metal detectors and sniffer dogs, it can still fulfill its obligations by providing accurate maps of where the mines are located. This isn’t some optional act of goodwill—it’s embedded in the same IHL principles that demand protection of civilians during and after conflict.
In fact, failure to provide this information could be interpreted as a willful endangerment of civilian lives, and potentially even as a violation of the Fourth Geneva Convention, which outlines protections for civilian populations in occupied territories. There’s also the 1997 Ottawa Treaty (Mine Ban Treaty), which Armenia has not ratified—but the underlying principles still shape customary law and expectations, particularly around transparency and post-conflict remediation.
In conclusion, Armenia’s delivery of the minefield maps is both a legal and moral obligation. Failing to do so may be perceived as a silent and invisible continuation of hostility. Some defenders of Armenia’s position might argue that providing maps would be akin to aiding the adversary—after all, why help your former opponent consolidate control over contested land?
But here’s the catch: IHL doesn’t recognize “political inconvenience” as a legitimate excuse for endangering civilians. In fact, deliberately withholding maps in a way that foreseeably causes civilian deaths or injuries could theoretically open the door to legal liability.
And let’s not forget, landmines don’t distinguish between soldier and shepherd, child and combatant. Their presence—particularly unmarked or unmapped—violates the principle of distinction, which sits at the very core of IHL.
One of the most frequent deflections is that Armenia no longer has jurisdiction over the land and thus cannot be expected to take action. But the duty to minimize the harm of weapons used during conflict doesn’t vanish with retreat. The legal term here is “continuing obligation.” Think of it as post-war housekeeping with potentially deadly consequences if skipped. Moreover, the post-conflict phase of a war is not a legal void. If anything, it’s when responsibilities become even more pronounced. The international community, with its increasingly tech-savvy and data-driven watchdogs, no longer tolerates the shrug-and-forget approach. If Armenia wants to be seen as a responsible regional actor—not a petty saboteur clinging to scorched-earth tactics—this is the moment to step up.
From the perspective of international humanitarian law, Armenia bears a clear legal responsibility—not only to refrain from further mine-laying but also to actively mitigate the deadly legacy of the ones already embedded in the soil. At a minimum, this includes the timely and complete sharing of accurate minefield maps with relevant authorities. This is not about politics; it is about principle.
Failing to act doesn’t just risk more civilian casualties; it exposes Armenia to international legal scrutiny and moral condemnation. As the region struggles to move from war to peace, landmines remain a potent symbol of unresolved tensions.
Whether Armenia chooses to be remembered as a former occupier clinging to grudges or a former belligerent committed to peace will depend largely on its next steps—measured not in rhetoric, but in maps, actions, and lives saved. After all, in the theater of law, as in war, the absence of action can be just as loud as the boom of a mine.
2. Given that only around 25% of the minefield maps provided by Armenia have been deemed reliable, how does this affect the operational efficiency and safety of demining efforts on the ground?
Let’s set the scene: demining teams fan out across a sun-scorched field in the liberated territories, mine detectors sweeping in rhythmic arcs. Every beep could mean a deadly surprise.
They’re working off maps—allegedly official, presumably precise—provided by Armenia as part of its post-war obligations. But here’s the catch: only about 25% of those maps are reliable. In other words, for every four areas marked as “cleared” or “safe to clear,” three could be wildly inaccurate, outdated, or altogether fabricated. This isn’t just inconvenient. It’s a recipe for chaos—and in the business of demining, chaos is lethal.
From an operational standpoint, the unreliability of 75% of Armenia’s minefield maps shatters the most fundamental premise of demining: predictability. The very point of using minefield records is to reduce uncertainty, speed up operations, and most crucially—save lives. But when the maps resemble guesswork more than guidance, they create a false sense of security.
Teams rely on this data to prioritize zones, allocate resources, and ensure they aren’t sending personnel into a deathtrap. If those maps lie—or even just err on the side of lazy cartography—entire operations must be revised on the fly. That means slower progress, higher risk, and an exponentially greater financial burden.
In practical terms, unreliable maps force deminers to treat all mapped zones as suspect. This means that every square inch must be re-verified—a staggering waste of time and resources. Instead of targeted, data-driven clearance, teams are thrown into a costly game of Minesweeper, except the consequences aren’t digital, they’re buried, metallic, and deadly.
This would also have broader impact:
- Years of delay in resettlement,
- Infrastructure projects stalled,
- Agricultural lands—some of the region’s most fertile—remain off-limits,
- Civilians returning to rebuild face the nightmare of invisible threats,
- Governments juggle between reconstruction needs and humanitarian safety obligations.
In short, unreliable maps convert a technical task into a political and security minefield of its own.
When only 25% of your data is credible, it’s not a clerical error—it starts to look like strategic sabotage. While plausible deniability may work in diplomatic cocktail parties, on the ground it smells more like an intentional effort to cripple reconstruction and endanger civilians. After all, Armenia had control over these territories for nearly three decades. It is neither credible nor admissible under international law to claim that it misplaced three-quarters of its minefield records.
This isn’t simply a violation of international humanitarian norms—it’s a slow-motion extension of hostilities by other means. You don’t need artillery to wage war when landmines can do the job silently, one casualty at a time.
With faulty maps, demining teams must adopt extreme caution protocols. That means more redundant sweeps, manual probing, and risk assessments—all of which balloon operational costs and drag timelines into decades.
This also taxes international donor fatigue. Countries and NGOs backing demining efforts may grow weary of pouring millions into efforts sabotaged by bad data. The result? Reduced funding, slower progress, and rising civilian frustration.
Let’s not forget morale. Every deminer’s life is on the line daily. When their main navigational aid is essentially a glorified treasure map from a drunk pirate, it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. High-stress operations become even more dangerous, increasing the risk of fatal accidents, burnout, and operational breakdown.
Legally, Armenia’s handover of flawed maps does not absolve it of liability. If anything, it may compound it. Offering unreliable data while claiming compliance could be viewed as bad-faith engagement under international humanitarian law. It does not meet the threshold of “reasonable effort” or “good faith” cooperation, particularly if deliberate obfuscation is suspected.
Worse, the unreliability of the maps undermines regional trust-building efforts. How do you normalize relations, negotiate transit corridors, or open embassies when your counterpart can’t or won’t ensure civilians won’t be blown up en route?
In essence, the 25% figure is not just a statistic—it’s a strategic indictment. It signals that Armenia’s compliance with its legal obligations is at best partial and at worst a theatrical gesture to placate international observers without any real intent to protect lives or facilitate peace. The cost? Human, economic, diplomatic, and, most tragically, avoidable.
So, what do you call a map that kills more than it saves? Not a tool of peace, but a weaponized document—one that turns paper into shrapnel and ink into a silent accomplice to future tragedy. Until Armenia steps up with real transparency and verifiable data, every beep in those minefields will echo with the failure of post-war accountability.
The bitter truth sometimes is that the deadliest lies are drawn in contour lines.
3. What are the main challenges Azerbaijan faces in its large-scale mine clearance efforts? In your opinion, are the current international contributions, both technical and financial, sufficient?
If ever there was a modern-day equivalent of cleaning the Augean stables, Azerbaijan’s demining mission would qualify—with one cruel twist: instead of manure, you’re shoveling through tens of thousands of buried death traps, and one wrong step turns your labor into a funeral.
Since reclaiming its territories following the 2020 war and subsequent developments, Azerbaijan has found itself grappling with one of the largest and most dangerous demining operations in the post-Cold War world. This isn’t just a clean-up job—it’s a long-haul war against remnants of a previous war, where the enemy is invisible, patient, and waits in silence.
First, the brutal numbers. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of landmines—anti-tank, anti-personnel, booby traps, and other inventive forms of subterranean spite—littered across formerly occupied regions. These aren’t neat grids you can sweep like a suburban lawn. No, they’re scatter-laid across mountains, valleys, forests, agricultural fields, and even near water sources.
And let’s not forget, this isn’t one monolithic terrain. The regions of Aghdam, Fuzuli, Jabrayil, Zangilan, and Lachin offer geographic nightmares—from craggy, wooded slopes to densely overgrown plains. Some mines were laid during the first Karabakh war in the early 1990s, others more recently. Some are mapped (poorly), most are not. Many were purposefully placed in civilian zones—a war crime in form and function—making reconstruction of homes, schools, hospitals, and infrastructure exponentially more hazardous.
Secondly, demining isn’t just dangerous. It’s glacially slow. Each hectare takes weeks, sometimes months, of painstaking work. The explosive devices must be located (if you’re lucky), defused, and cleared, often by hand. Now multiply that by hundreds of thousands of hectares.
Why is this a strategic problem?
Because Azerbaijan has bold reconstruction plans. Whole cities like Aghdam and Fuzuli are being rebuilt from scratch. But nothing—no foundation, no irrigation, no electricity pole—can be laid until the land is declared safe. Every unexploded device is a brick wall in the path of nation-building.
And time isn’t just money, it’s morale. Internally displaced people (IDPs) are eager to return after thirty years in limbo. Delays due to landmine contamination prolong their displacement, foment frustration, and stall the emotional closure of a traumatic chapter.
Despite massive national mobilization, Azerbaijan faces a deficit in trained deminers, specialized equipment, and cutting-edge technology. The Azerbaijan National Agency for Mine Action (ANAMA) is doing heroic work, but there simply aren’t enough boots, bots, or bucks to match the magnitude of the threat.
Deminers are overburdened. Attrition is high. Every mission is a mental and physical grind. Meanwhile, demand for drone surveillance, AI-assisted mapping, and armored vehicles outpaces supply. Azerbaijan is deploying canine units and foreign-trained experts, but scaling this to meet national needs is an uphill battle.
Let’s talk about the map fiasco. Armenia’s minefield “records” are, in most cases, either wildly inaccurate or tragically incomplete. As previously explored, only about 25% of the handed-over maps have proved useful. That means Azerbaijan has to work blind in most areas—relying on visual clues, metal detectors, and local memory rather than hard data.
This lack of reliable records doesn’t just slow things down—it turns every demining operation into an ambush. And since many mines are plastic or disguised, even advanced sensors don’t always catch them. It’s not just a challenge—it’s a deliberate act of obstruction wrapped in bureaucratic shrugging.
Let’s be frank. While some countries and organizations have stepped up with donations, technical support, and training, the global response is woefully inadequate for the scale of the problem. Western capitals love issuing statements about peace, stability, and humanitarian responsibility—but when it comes to funding the shovels that actually unearth the danger, the enthusiasm wanes.
Much of the West’s hesitation stems from political caution—fear of “appearing to take sides” in the Armenia-Azerbaijan conflict. But neutrality should not be a reason to undermine humanitarian urgency. Landmines do not discriminate. They kill children, farmers, and aid workers alike.
Meanwhile, major donor organizations have focused disproportionately on other hotspots—Yemen, Syria, Ukraine—leaving Azerbaijan competing for scraps in a crowded crisis marketplace. Some funds have been earmarked for flashy photo-op projects, while long-term infrastructure for training local deminers or purchasing advanced robotics is still chronically underfunded.
Another rarely discussed burden? The public diplomacy battle. While Azerbaijan tries to rally international support, some advocacy groups downplay the mine problem or spin it as a politically motivated talking point. The implication? That focusing on demining is somehow an attempt to score propaganda points.
This creates a bizarre double standard. When other post-conflict nations call for help, they’re hailed as responsible. When Azerbaijan does it, it’s met with suspicious glances and cautious clauses. That undermines the country’s ability to garner the global momentum it needs to resolve a genuine, verifiable humanitarian disaster.
Azerbaijan’s demining efforts are more than just a safety campaign. They are the linchpin of national recovery. No return, no reconstruction, no reconciliation is possible without clearing these cursed remnants of war.
But make no mistake—this isn’t a task Azerbaijan can, or should, shoulder alone. The international community’s failure to match its rhetoric with robust support speaks volumes. In the end, the question isn’t just about mine, it’s about moral clarity. Do we help those trying to restore life to war-ravaged lands? Or do we let diplomatic inertia and donor fatigue bury yet another generation beneath the soil of neglect?
Until more allies swap their statements for scanners, and their hashtags for hazard suits, Azerbaijan’s heroic deminers will continue to risk everything to defuse not just explosives, but the apathy that surrounds them.
And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous minefield of all.
4. What mechanisms can the international community, including the United Nations and the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE), use to ensure accountability for such long-term post-war threats?
If war leaves scars, then landmines are the shrapnel that never stops wounding. And when a conflict ends, the responsibility for clearing those remnants—or at the very least, providing the blueprint to avoid them—should be a moral reflex, not a negotiable favor. But as Azerbaijan’s post-conflict landscape has made painfully clear, we are far from a global consensus on accountability for these lingering threats. Which begs the question: what can the international community actually do when a state buries mines… and then buries the truth?
Spoiler alert: more than it’s doing right now.
First, let’s take a walk through the legal arsenal already available but rarely wielded with teeth.
The Ottawa Convention (1997)—formally known as the Mine Ban Treaty—prohibits the use, stockpiling, production, and transfer of anti-personnel mines and requires parties to assist in demining and victim support. Armenia isn’t a party to the treaty. Convenient, isn’t it?
But here’s where it gets interesting: Customary international humanitarian law, particularly as interpreted by the International Committee of the Red Cross, obligates all parties in a conflict to minimize harm to civilians, even after the guns fall silent. That includes the duty to mark, remove, or at least disclose the location of mines. When a state knowingly withholds such information, it crosses into the territory of deliberate endangerment of civilians—and that, dear reader, is a potential war crime.
So why isn’t the international community prosecuting? That leads us to mechanism #2.
While the international legal process is notoriously slow (and often politicized), diplomatic consequences can be swift and biting—if the will exists. Bodies like the OSCE and UN Human Rights Council have platforms that allow for the documentation and exposure of deliberate post-conflict hazards. Special rapporteurs can be appointed to investigate, gather evidence, and issue scathing reports. And make no mistakes, these reports matter. They shape international opinion, justify sanctions, and isolate violators diplomatically.
More creatively, donor states and multilateral aid bodies can condition reconstruction funding or development assistance on transparency and cooperation in demining. No maps? No money. It’s a simple equation, but one the West is too squeamish to apply evenly.
Furthermore, sanctions regimes—especially those imposed by the EU or U.S.—can include provisions for post-conflict obstructionism. If a state is found deliberately withholding minefield data, particularly to stall another state’s reconstruction and repatriation process, targeted sanctions against officials or ministries involved in the cover-up are entirely justifiable.
The precedent already exists, think of the sanctions imposed for blocking humanitarian aid in Syria or Sudan.
In a perfect world, the UN Security Council could treat the deliberate endangerment of civilians via hidden landmines as a threat to peace and security, especially if it impedes resettlement or stokes further tensions. That’s not fantasy—it aligns with existing precedent. For example, in the Balkans, the UNSC recognized unexploded ordnance as a serious security risk in its post-conflict resolutions.
In theory, a Security Council resolution could mandate full minefield transparency, appoint monitoring teams, or refer cases of obstruction to the International Criminal Court (ICC) under Article 8 of the Rome Statute, which includes “intentionally directing attacks against civilians” or using weapons that cause “superfluous injury or unnecessary suffering.” Of course, geopolitical realities being what they are, getting such a resolution through would be an uphill battle—especially if one or more P5 members view the accused state as a strategic partner. But even a failed resolution can galvanize international attention and force states to take sides.
Let’s also consider the role of neutral third parties or international technical consortia. OSCE, for example, has already deployed fact-finding missions in frozen conflicts. A hybrid model—where a coalition of states sponsors a demining audit, using neutral engineers, drone surveillance, and AI-enhanced mapping tools—could provide irrefutable proof of obstruction or bad faith.
Such audits, if coordinated with international legal observers, can then be used as the basis for international arbitration, claims for reparations, or even future multilateral lawsuits. It’s not just about punishing past actions—it’s about creating enforceable norms for future conflicts.
Let’s not pretend we’re entering virgin territory here. Precedents abound, if one bothers to look:
- Croatia vs. Serbia at the International Court of Justice involved claims of ethnic cleansing but also raised post-conflict accountability issues, setting the stage for broader interpretations of state responsibility.
- In Colombia, the UNDP coordinated a long-term demining operation after civil war, holding FARC guerrillas accountable for their own mine placements through negotiated disclosures.
- In Kosovo and Cambodia, international funding was explicitly tied to post-conflict transparency, and non-compliance triggered diplomatic isolation.
So yes, the toolbox exists. What’s missing is the political screwdriver to apply pressure where needed.
The international community faces a choice. Either it codifies minefield map-sharing and post-conflict demining as non-negotiable obligations under international law, or it risks sending the message that landmines are just another acceptable tool of post-war spite.
Allowing states to walk away from the table with maps in their pockets and silence on their lips doesn’t just prolong suffering, it weaponizes time itself, turning every delay into a form of passive aggression.
If international law means anything, it must mean this: no victory should come with the right to bury danger and walk away. And no peace is real until the mines are gone and the truth is unearthed.
