Selle kiireltkulgend sõja kaotas siiski justnimelt ARMEENLASTE SÕJALISE MÕTLEMISE JA JUHTIMISE VÕIME - mitte miski "kogukonnapõhine bande" kusagil ŠUŠA allLupusII kirjutas:Mulle tundub , et kui vastasteks oleks olnud sõjavägi mitte kogukonna põhine pande ,ei oleks need droonid sellist edulugu põhjustanud.
Võitlejad, suures osas, olid eakamad ja vanemad Mehed.Ka kogukonnapõhine bande oli nende aastate jooksul laisaks ja mugavaks muutunud.
https://twitter.com/RALee85/status/1334456798473056257The Azerbaijani MoD announced that its death total from the conflict is 2,783 with more than 100 still missing. Another 1,245 are wounded and hospitalized.
Ja siin on üks mõttekoht - kuskohast see asi kiiva läks, ja kuidas seda vältida.Borja kirjutas:Selle kiireltkulgend sõja kaotas siiski justnimelt ARMEENLASTE SÕJALISE MÕTLEMISE JA JUHTIMISE VÕIME
, pole ka midagi maha võtta. 
Jah, aga Aserbaidžaan on rikas riik ikkagi Armeeniaga võrreldes. Soomest näiteks on neil 2x suurem rahvaarv ning 10x väiksem majandus. Meist on nende GNP ainult poolteist korda suurem.Poti soldat kirjutas:Lihtsalt Aseritel on nii palju naftadollareid et jätkub nii kõigi korrumptantide määrimiseks kui ka vajaliku relvastuse kokku ostmiseks.
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At that point in October, though, the scale of the oncoming catastrophe was perhaps too great to comprehend, and there was a pervasive denial about how the war was going.
The Armenian Ministry of Defense was issuing regular, rosy dispatches from the front denying any Azerbaijani advance and proudly enumerating the numbers of tanks and drones it had destroyed and enemy soldiers it had killed. Independent analysts, though, were painting a different picture: Azerbaijan was making dramatic advances on the ground and Armenian forces were suffering serious attrition.
The Armenian media had, however, uncritically picked up the official line. This was partly due to a censorship regime: Shortly after fighting started, the government instituted martial law, one of the provisions of which was that it was illegal “to call into question the military capabilities” of the armed forces. But it also seemed to be partly a self-censorship in response to popular demand: There was no appetite for news about how Armenia was losing.
In my day job I am Caucasus editor at Eurasianet, a website covering the former Soviet Union, and any story we published that suggested things could be going badly for Armenia was met with a flurry of social media anger, claiming that we had fallen victim to Azerbaijani government propaganda.
There were widespread rumors that—secretly—the situation was better than it appeared. Many Armenians told me that they had heard from authoritative sources that things were in fact going well on the battlefield, or that Russia was secretly supplying arms. (Russia is nominally a treaty ally of Armenia, but its conspicuously laissez-faire attitude while Armenians in Karabakh were under attack was the subject of much speculation.)
I met one young woman, Irina Safaryan, who worked for the de facto government in Karabakh and had fled to Yerevan when her hometown, Hadrut, was taken by Azerbaijan. She chalked up bad news about the war to “panic” spread by irresponsible social media users: “Imagine if they had Twitter in 1993. Panicking is not going to help anyone.” Still, she allowed that some of the bad news may have been true. “I know a lot of things, but I keep them to myself,” she said.
I asked Armenian American political analyst Richard Giragosian, who has lived in Yerevan for 16 years and now heads a think tank here, what he made of this kind of denial. He called it the “myth of invincibility” borne out of the experience of the first war, which Armenians at one point were badly losing until they came back to rout the Azerbaijanis.
That mythology has bred a sense of complacency, an almost spiritual belief in Armenians’ toughness and superiority over Azerbaijanis that would negate whatever material advantage the Azerbaijani state might have. Giragosian characterized this thinking as “bullshit exceptionalism.”
But there also were plenty of cracks in the outward displays of confidence. I took a tour of VOMA, a volunteer paramilitary organization in Yerevan that trains nonsoldiers in combat skills and maintains a battalion of troops fighting in Karabakh. It was almost a tragically shambolic scene, with a wide variety of unprepared-looking people training to go a war that even the professional soldiers of the Armenian armed forces were losing badly.
There I met 59-year-old Hrayr Koroghlian, a gray-bearded Frenchman of Armenian descent who had left his job at a car dealership in France to train at VOMA. Other than the wooden model of an AK-47 he cradled, he bore a remarkable resemblance to Bill Murray as Steve Zissou. “I’m mentally ready” to go to the front, he told me. “The commanders will decide when I’m physically ready.”
But when I asked the two young volunteers who were showing me around how they thought the war was going, they both lowered their eyes and paused a bit. “I don’t know,” one told me.
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And yet, most Armenians never seemed to believe that a war was actually possible. Over my years of reporting on this conflict, I had been struck by the disconnect from what I heard in Azerbaijan—that war would be inevitable if negotiations didn’t work—and among Armenians, who tended to think that Baku was all talk and no action.
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In this atmosphere, saturated with bravado and desperation, defeat was unfathomable. And for Armenians, who tend to see themselves as cardinally superior to Azerbaijanis—more civilized, smarter, tougher, and better fighters—the thought that they could one day lose never crossed their minds.
And then they lost.
A bit past midnight on Nov. 10, Pashinyan, Azerbaijani President Ilham Aliyev, and Russian President Vladimir Putin signed a deal to end the war.
Two days before, Azerbaijan had announced that it had captured Shusha, the hilltop city that is both a strategically key site and a symbolically rich one; it had been the center of Azerbaijani culture in Karabakh for centuries.
Armenian officials denied that the city (they spell it Shushi) had been taken. “Wait for the official news, and wait for the end of the battle of Shushi which I’m sure our army will end with glory and we will win, I am sure. Trust our army and wait,” the Ministry of Defense spokesman, Artsrun Hovhannisyan, said. Armenian social media and rumor mills were full of reports that, in fact, the city was not under Azerbaijani control. It turned out that the Azerbaijanis were right, and with Shusha under their control, the Armenians faced a rout and Pashinyan had no choice but to sign the capitulation.
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Many others, though, didn’t believe Pashinyan had no choice and accused him of “selling out” Karabakh. The details of the conspiracy theory were fuzzy and often contradictory, but they were all based on a belief that Armenia could have won the war. “He is a traitor,” Ruzana Martirosyan told me. “He stopped the soldiers from fighting.” Another, Emma Begiyan, told me: “They were telling us every day that everything was going great [in the war] and now in one night we’re selling our land.”
In the wake of the defeat, there has been a lot of second-guessing of Pashinyan’s decision-making. The chief of staff of the armed forces came out to say that military leaders recommended surrendering just days after the start of the war, when it was clear that Armenia was hopelessly outmatched against Azerbaijan and Turkey, and the country could have negotiated less painful terms. Putin piled on, saying that Pashinyan had rejected an earlier deal, to which Aliyev agreed, that also would have left Armenia in a far better position than it ended up.
It appeared that Pashinyan was politically hamstrung by Armenians’ belief that they couldn’t lose. After the war ended, Giragosian told me that Pashinyan was getting conflicting information on the military situation, and pessimistic assessments like that of the armed forces’ chief of staff were in the minority. Still, he summed up Pashinyan’s strategic thinking in one word: “hubris.” As I write this, Pashinyan’s fate is unclear, but it’s hard to believe he’s going to hold on for much longer.
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