Currently, there are more than 330 political prisoners in Azerbaijan, however the Azerbaijani authorities deny their existence in the country. The group is diverse, encompassing journalists, bloggers, human rights defenders (among them labour rights activists and trade union organizers[1]), deported political exiles along with religious figures and political party members. It also includes anti-war and environmental activists, as well as analysts and scholars. Among them is political scientist and our colleague Bahruz Samadov. Some individuals have been released from prison, but they remain under house arrest. Travel bans have been imposed on others.
All of this occurs against the background of a further consolidated authoritarian landscape. The last couple of years in Azerbaijan have been a time of “shrinking space” for civil society, and witnessed two wars which were greatly celebrated by the Azerbaijani regime: the second Karabakh/Artsakh war (2020) during the Covid-19 global pandemic; and the one-day war (2023), which led to the almost entire expulsion of the Armenian population in Karabakh, the forced dissolution of the former de-facto state itself, and the reintegration of its territory under Azerbaijani administration. Since 2023, repression in Azerbaijan has increased; the 2023 environmental protests against a “second artificial lake, also known as the tailing dam” in the village of Söyüdlü (Gadabay district, Western Azerbaijan), which had sparked hopes among some, were met with disproportionate police violence and the area was closed off by security forces. Spaces for public events, such as film screenings, training sessions for political youth work, or labour organizing, have become increasingly restricted and are now almost entirely inaccessible. A considerable number of democrats (young, but not exclusively) now sit in Azerbaijan’s prisons, others were forced to escape abroad or frequently to silence themselves so not to risk harsh prison sentences or threats directed at family members. However, voices of solidarity continue to be heard among some of the remaining independent journalists, lawyers, and political analysts in Azerbaijan, who support, especially in online discourse, those directly affected by the political violence. Now what to hope for in these dark times?
To ponder on this question, I investigate how the concept of “hope” is being interpreted among young Azerbaijani leftist democrats. For years, leftist democrats in Azerbaijan have taken various measures to express a “democratic ethos” and resist the country’s political regime. In 2020, for instance, the “Azerbaijani Leftist Youth” released an anti-war statement, and in 2023, the Feminist Peace Collective, a feminist collective and platform showed solidarity with the Karabakh Armenians amidst the Azerbaijani-initiated months long blockade of the Lachin corridor that connected Nagorno-Karabakh with Armenia. Until the onset of crackdowns in 2023, numerous other left-leaning informal groups and individuals—through writing and on-the-ground political actions—advocated for human rights, social justice, and political equality in Azerbaijan.
What does hope (ümid) mean for young Azerbaijani democrats?
I spoke with young Azerbaijani political activists, independent analysts, and young scholars, living both in Azerbaijan and abroad, about the ways they understand hope in the context of Azerbaijani politics and society. All the interlocutors share democratic values, whether expressed through their political activism or their scholarship. This means that they have either engaged in democratic politics in small collectives and organizations in Azerbaijan, advocated for peace with Armenians while criticizing nationalist policies in Azerbaijan, or drawn on democratic theory in their academic work. In addition, they are all left-leaning or leftist which means that they either hold democratic socialist, social democratic, or queer leftist convictions. Between January and February 2025, I spoke with five interlocutors in total, three in Azerbaijan, and two outside of the country. Of these, three are male, one is queer, and one female. This account is in no way representative of the entire group of young Azerbaijani democrats. Instead, it schematically portrays how hope has been interpreted among some, in order to explore how hope could be approached theoretically in further research.
One interlocutor reflected, “I’ve given this question a lot of thought over the past few years because we—myself, other activists, and dissident friends—have, in some ways, become more hopeless.” Another interlocutor, who started their activism in the LGBTQ+ community in their early teenage years, recalled that hope “played a more acute role” at the beginning of their activism in 2019. They continued, “At that time, we had places where we could gather, friends we could hug in Baku… we had a collective passion [and we] regularly conducted social media campaigns, distributed flyers and stickers, published books and articles.” Back then, they also shared, “I thought that one day our country would become Gulistanlig (güllük-gülüstanlıq, Azerbaijani for a pleasant place).” The activist recalled that they would “gather in front of the courts, hold rallies,” and added that they “would see how many people came to the courts when […] [we] called for a rally. Because there was hope.” Even when threats, harassment, or arrests followed, or when spaces for community work were shut down by the police, this hope remained active: “Our only determination was the desire for a better life.”
During a conversation with a researcher pursuing his studies abroad, he commented on the relationship between negativity and hope. It had been helpful for him and his “activist friends in Azerbaijan,” he explained, to reflect on what they do not want in politics. While they certainly envisioned a society “free from authoritarianism and a just society that cares for the needs of everyone, not just a select few,” he highlighted that an essential part of “hoping for the future” was deciding what to exclude from one’s hopes.
Another young political activist and independent political analyst, based in southern Azerbaijan, instead explained what he associates with hope:
“I think of people who sacrifice their freedom for the freedom of others. Maybe one of the reasons why we [the left-leaning democratic community] are still politically resisting is those brave people. All authoritarian regimes will eventually disappear. Just like Saddam Hussein, Gaddafi, and most recently Bashar al-Assad, the Aliyev regime will also collapse. But, as it collapses, innocent people must not be crushed and suffer under its ruins. For this reason, we try to be hopeful and try to keep ourselves standing, even if the last bastions of democracy collapse.”
Here, hope, strongly emotionally loaded, is associated with political struggle and resistance, ethical responsibility, and a future-oriented alternative society built through political sacrifice. This perspective is reminiscent of the Marxist theorist Ernst Bloch, who conceptualized hope as a political force oriented toward a utopian horizon, framed by the idea of the “Not-Yet.” A defining feature of this form of hope is its “militant optimism,” which aligns with the activist’s statement: “There is always hope for Azerbaijanis. But for this, it is necessary to make more efforts.”
Another dissident peace activist who is based in Baku stressed that hope in some sense is related to agency and morality:
“When talking about ‘hope,’ there have always been hopeful times.” He continued, “The only hope for the people is the small number of honest people who are still in the minority. […] It is a little difficult to talk about ‘hope’ now. Because Aliyev [the Azerbaijani president] is now so afraid that he might catch us all. He does not want even a single person in the opposition person to remain free.”
Finally, a young woman who works as an independent analyst in Azerbaijan concluded, “The government has instilled a subconscious fear in people. The only remaining hope is for young people to study abroad, gain practical knowledge, and return to the country to establish stronger platforms.”
The role of political prisoners
When asked about the political prisoners, the queer interlocutor elaborated: “One day, Ilham Aliyev decided to take away our last hope, and began to target all of us. He imprisoned our friends for several years, and banned some of us from leaving the country. I think he gave us the worst thing for an activist—isolation.” They continued, “It is difficult to say specifically whether I am hopeful, but I know that our imprisoned feminist comrades are hopeful. I think I draw strength from their hope.”
The female interlocutor regarded political prisoners as “represent[ing] both repression and hope.” She stated that “their imprisonment demonstrates the government’s intolerance of criticism, but at the same time, it proves that people are willing to make sacrifices for change.” Others highlighted a persistent divide between the general Azerbaijani population and activist circles, particularly regarding the recognition of political prisoners. Here, the analyst reflected: “Unfortunately, the political situation in the country is not favorable to collect information about all political prisoners. We do not even know the identity of many people. Their families are distraught. […] This misery is not only moral but also material. Because the vast majority of people living in prison are poor. Poor people who are resisting against the dictatorship.”
The interlocutor who had previously reflected on the relationship between negativity and hope critically noted that in the current context, situational alliances between differing and even conflicting ideological groups were necessary in the face of authoritarianism. This, he argued, meant that some political prisoners might not be defended for their personal beliefs or ideological stance, but rather because they needed protection from the government.
The young female analyst concluded that “their stories serve as a source of inspiration for many and strengthen the human rights struggle both domestically and internationally. International pressure sometimes leads to their release, showing that hope is not entirely lost.”
“Spaces of hope”?
In Spaces of Hope (2000), Marxist thinker and geographer David Harvey argued that capitalism organizes space in an unequal manner, however he also underlined that these unequal forms of spatial arrangements open up possibilities for change and hope. Harvey called for concrete alternatives instead of abstract idealistic ideas. Inspired by this, I wondered whether my interlocutors would associate any spaces—virtual, digital, imagined, or analogue—with hope. They found it challenging to locate a space of hope, but as one of them shared, while “it is important to recognize that you are in a sort of political burnout,” it is also important “to convince ourselves that […] [a space of hope] exists.” Otherwise, there “would be no meaning, no resistance.” Another underlined, “I think we can somehow modify it—after all, we knew that we had chosen to fight in the darkest days.”
“Space of hope,” both in Azerbaijan and outside of the country, took different forms for the people with whom I spoke. One interlocutor introduced the idea of distinguishing between “grand” and “mundane hopes,” emphasizing that while it is crucial to build and maintain a broader political narrative of “radical political change,” it is equally important to consider everyday articulations of hope. Such expressions could be found in daily conversations on social media or face-to-face with neighbors, for instance when voicing frustrations with social or political infrastructure or with the events of the day. For him, the act of expressing anger symbolized a refusal to “accept […] [political] defeat.”
One concrete space of hope was opened up by independent economist Togrul Veliyev’s announcement that he would participate in the then falsified 2020 parliamentary “elections.” Small movements organized his campaign and a wave of optimism and enthusiasm was felt within the left-wing community, even with the awareness that Veliyev’s chances to actually succeed in the elections were tiny (and indeed, he did not enter the parliament). Another much more recent example concerned the provision of hygiene products to some female prisoners. One interlocutor shared that they had organized “an action to collect clean clothes and pads for our comrades in prison,” and once they were given out, “this was hope […]” for them.
Finally, another space of hope was “diaspora activism,” namely ideas to organize academic forums and meet activists abroad, to reach out to international organizations, and to support activists in Azerbaijan from afar. Digital spaces were recognized as “one of the places where hope exists,” partially blurring the “real” and the “digital” as well as situational alliances, which are ideologically diverse, however help maintain joint resistance against political authoritarianism.
Conclusion
Hope as an existential concept finds resonance with and is of importance for young Azerbaijani democrats. Differing interpretations of what hope means are tied to factors such as individual experiences, ideological convictions, and political events. Further analysis could focus on considering the interaction between leftists in Azerbaijan and abroad, on the kinds of emotions and ideas produced through these interactions, and on which strategies are crucial for hope-making. While it remains important to analyze Azerbaijan’s authoritarianism and its impact on society collectively and on individuals more subjectively, there is value in illustrating the visions and aspirations of ordinary citizens. Developing a “politics of hope,” which might seem counterintuitive initially, can provide a valuable lens of analysis. This would allow us to move beyond hopeless narratives of authoritarian stagnation.
Acknowledgments: Veronika would like to thank Adela Hîncu (LeftEast) and Tiffany Williams (University of Jena) for their editorial support.
[1] Thank you to some of the interlocutors for pointing this out. Notable here in particular is the independent trade union “Workers’ Table Trade Unions Confederation” (İşçi Masası Həmkarlar İttifaqları Konfederasiyası) and the ongoing arrests of some of their members, including the chairman.
Veronika Pfeilschifter is a social scientist with a background in political science, European ethnology, and Central, East European, Russian, and Eurasian (CEERES) studies. She is currently a doctoral researcher at the Institute for Caucasus Studies at Friedrich Schiller University Jena (FSU) and a research affiliate at the Centre for East European and International Studies (ZOiS) Berlin. Her academic interests include society, youth, and politics in the South Caucasus, the (new) left, political subjectivity, emotions, and critical social theory.