While global headlines fixate on the coercion of regimes in Kabul, Moscow, or Beijing, a more polished form of authoritarianism has quietly consolidated itself on the shores of the Caspian Sea. Azerbaijan belongs in the same category as the world’s most repressive states. To the casual observer, Baku appears as a city of futuristic skylines, Formula 1 circuits, and high-stakes energy diplomacy, but beneath this polished facade of progress lies a political order whose concentration of power exceeds that of far more openly authoritarian regimes. According to the Freedom House 2026 report, Azerbaijan scored only 6 out of 100 on the global freedom scale, ranking below Afghanistan, Russia, and China.
The Aliyev regime has endured for decades with limited internal resistance and relatively muted external pressure, despite operating within a global environment that claims to privilege democratic norms and sanctions over authoritarianism. Even more puzzling is the apparent normalisation of this system within Azerbaijani conformist society. Why has the Aliyevist model not only survived but flourished? What type of authoritarianism is at work when repression is real yet invisible, when dissent exists but struggles to crystallise into meaningful opposition, and when state legitimacy is continuously reproduced rather than simply imposed?
Understanding the longevity of the Aliyev regime requires examining the ideological and discursive framework often described as “Azerbaijanism”. In particular, the Karabakh conflict and the memory of the Khojaly tragedy that are part of Azerbaijanism, have been elevated beyond historical events into foundational elements of state identity.
The stability of the current Aliyev administration is the result of a meticulously constructed imitation democracy initiated by Ilham Aliyev’s father, Heydar Aliyev. He presented himself as the only force capable of saving the nation from disintegration. The regime promoted a model of “Sovereign Democracy”—a concept suggesting that while democracy is a goal, the only vehicle capable of achieving it is the existing Aliyev dynasty.
By the time Ilham Aliyev took the oath of office in 2003, Azerbaijanist ideology was already in motion. Following the defeat in the First Karabakh War, the Aliyev regime recognised that a fractured society was a threat to dynastic survival. A singular, visceral national idea was formulated: Armenia and the Armenians are the main enemies. Core to Azerbaijanist ideology, by drawing a line between “us” and “them”, nationalism points its finger straight at the source of all misfortune: the eternal, external enemy.
Ilham Aliyev operated as a quintessential Thucydidean realist. He understood that “might makes right” in the international arena. While Western institutions criticised his human rights record, he ensured that international organisations remained toothless through what has been termed “caviar diplomacy”—the strategic bribery of European officials and deputies. He showed that a military solution may supersede diplomatic stalemate if the aggressor is wealthy and patient enough.
The defeat created a profound political challenge for Azerbaijani leadership. To sustain a long-term mobilisation strategy, the regime required more than a narrative of territorial loss; it needed a foundational myth of victimhood capable of emotionally unifying society and justifying centralised control. They found it in Khojaly.
According to the official Azerbaijani narrative, the events in Khojaly in February 1992 constituted a massacre of Azerbaijani civilians by Armenian forces. As noted in Nezavisimaya Gazeta, the narrative of Khojaly was systematically enhanced to serve political ends. The tragedy became a weapon used by political factions in Baku to overthrow the then-president, Ayaz Mutalibov. Mutalibov admitted: “As the Khojaly survivors say, it was all organised to create a pretext for my resignation… a ‘humanitarian corridor’ was left by the Armenians. Why would they shoot? Especially in an area close to Aghdam, where there were enough [Azerbaijani] forces to help the people.”
Reports also indicated that many of the victims were discovered approximately 11–12 kilometres from Khojaly, an area between Armenian positions near Nakhichevanik and Azerbaijani-controlled territory close to Aghdam. At the time, this zone was reportedly under the control of units affiliated with the Azerbaijani Popular Front, which was in opposition to Mutalibov.
To maintain this state-sanctioned version of history, the Aliyev regime has practised extreme information hygiene. Journalists like Chingiz Mustafayev, who filmed the aftermath and questioned the official Azerbaijani narrative, died under mysterious circumstances. Others who interviewed locals that spoke of Armenian-provided corridors were imprisoned or forced into exile.
The Khojaly events were used as a political sledgehammer. The opposition used the horror of the massacre to frame Mutalibov as incompetent and traitorous. While the Khojaly tragedy did not put Heydar Aliyev in the president’s chair the next day, it was the unifying catalyst that destroyed his rivals and cleared his path.
The regime skillfully diverted all public energy toward this perceived external monster. In a country where oil wealth is concentrated in a single family, the focus on Armenian aggression ensured that the “beggar on the golden throne” would be free of prying eyes too busy keeping watch for the enemy across the border. Any anti-government protest was framed as an attempt to split the nation. This created the “Pattern of Denial”: Azerbaijani citizens became conformists not necessarily because they loved the regime, but because the regime had successfully convinced them that any internal division was a gift to the enemy.
The victory in the Second Karabakh War was the ultimate proof for the public that Aliyev’s authoritarianism was correct. Before 2020, Aliyev was a scrutinised autocrat. After 2020, he became a national hero. He no longer needs to justify his wealth or his family’s monopolies; he has returned the pride of the nation, and in the eyes of a radicalised public, that is a blank check for eternal rule.
What’s next? Having successfully erased the Armenian presence from Nagorno-Karabakh, Aliyev has begun drafting the script for the next conflict. The new state narrative centres on “Western Azerbaijan”—a cynical rebranding of the internationally recognised territory of Armenia as “historical Azerbaijani lands.” State television and seemingly academic forums now push the absurd claim that Armenians are not indigenous to the Caucasus but are 19th-century immigrants from India and the Balkans. Aliyev spent 30 years waiting for the moment to take Karabakh, now using “Western Azerbaijan” to keep the public in a state of continued mobilisation. The external threat never disappears, and the need for a strongman never fades.
Through the construction of Azerbaijanism, the elevation of national trauma, and the framing of external threat, the regime has cultivated an environment in which loyalty appears synonymous with patriotism and dissent risks being perceived as betrayal. For many years, the regime told the public they were losers and victims.
When Aliyev finally delivered a military victory, he didn’t just win territory; he provided a psychological cure for a national inferiority complex. For many, supporting Aliyev is no longer a political choice—it’s a debt of gratitude.
To criticise him now feels, to the radicalised mind, like betraying the “martyrs” who died for the land.
Written by Sose Kharatyan, Edited by Yoana Kartova.
Photo Credit: Hikmat Gafarzada (2020, October 24) on Unsplash; “noir” Canva effect added by the Polemics Magazine.
