At a Crossroads: The Changing Politics of Women, Peace and Security in the South Caucasus

Few regions illustrate the relevance of the Women, Peace and Security (WPS) agenda as clearly as the South Caucasus, where multiple protracted conflicts date back to the Soviet era and its dissolution. Despite this, women across the region have been at the forefront of peacebuilding efforts, dialogue, and community resilience, often working with limited recognition and support.

The WPS agenda is an international normative framework stemming from the landmark UN Security Council Resolution 1325 (2000), and nine follow-up resolutions, covering topics such as women’s participation in peace and security, protection from gendered harms in conflicts, and the need for gender-sensitive post-conflict reconstruction. Driven by transnational feminist advocacy and strategic lobbying inside and outside multilateral institutions, the Resolution 1325 was the first to recognize the unique impacts that wars and conflicts have on women and girls. The four pillars of the WPS agenda—participation, protection, prevention, and relief & recovery—guide UN Member States and other actors in implementing its resolutions. One of the main ways, though not the only one, is through the development of a National Action Plan (NAP), in which a country enshrines the WPS agenda into its institutions or laws.

This blog provides only a partial snapshot of the processes surrounding WPS NAPs in the South Caucasus, rather than focusing on their content. It relies on original data I collected as part of my doctoral research on the emergence, adoption, and implementation of the WPS agenda in four countries: Ukraine, Moldova, Georgia, and Armenia. For the sections on Georgia and Armenia, which this piece will focus on, I conducted research between 2022 and 2023.[1] Unless referenced otherwise, all data comes from my thesis.

A brief overview of WPS processes in Georgia and Armenia

Georgia

Georgia was the first country in the region to see the flourishing of advocacy around the WPS agenda, with efforts dating back to the early 2000s. Yet, the real development of its first NAP only took shape after two pivotal events. The first was the 2003 Rose Revolution. Mikheil Saakashvili’s new government launched sweeping reforms in law enforcement, the judiciary, and the financial sector, while pushing market liberalization and a strong pro-Western agenda. This event signaled Georgia’s decisive break from its Soviet past and turn to its Euro-Atlantic ambitions, creating a more open environment for human rights advocacy, although the United National Movement was later accused of severe human rights violations. The second turning point came with the brief but devastating 2008 war in South Ossetia, when Russian and separatist forces clashed with Georgian troops, invaded, and occupied Georgia. While the first event accelerated democratization in the country and opened a window of opportunity for WPS advocacy, the second was a traumatic and catalytic moment for Georgians, reawakening the trauma of the 1992–1993 conflict in Abkhazia, and spurring the government’s interest in WPS due to the devastating outcomes of the war. 

Indeed, the 2008 war exposed the deeply gendered dimensions of armed conflict. When new waves of internally displaced persons (IDPs) needed urgent assistance, Georgian women were among the first responders, providing humanitarian relief and mobilizing communities. Women peacebuilders who had previously mobilized around the WPS agenda saw an opportunity at that time, driven by their efforts to find allies in Parliament, map community needs, and connect with decision-makers. One woman involved in these efforts in the early 2010s recalled that developing Georgia’s first NAP included extensive consultations across various cities. Supported by the UN and EU, the process brought together government bodies, civil society, and non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in working groups under the Parliament’s Gender Equality Council.

My research reveals that this first NAP did not emerge in a vacuum but was built on a series of institutional reforms and gender equality laws passed throughout the 2000s.[2] As such, Georgian feminists took an incremental approach, building their network, expertise, and experience with gender legislation, until Parliament officially adopted the first WPS NAP for 2012–2015. The second NAP (2016–2017) remained modest and in a learning phase, with several shortfalls. However, the third NAP (2018–2020) marked a shift toward greater depth and scope by focusing on localizing WPS implementation. Developed through broader consultations with municipalities and rural communities, it emphasized grassroots consultations and activities along administrative boundary lines. This focus on localization became central after 2016, when amendments to the Gender Equality Law required all 64 municipalities to establish Gender Equality Councils.[3] Despite its grand ambitions, the implementation of the third NAP—and the development of the fourth NAP—were challenging, hindered by the COVID-19 pandemic and new public administration reforms, which delayed and canceled many planned activities.

After a two-year gap, the fourth NAP (2022–2024) was finally adopted in 2022, following a lengthy drafting process. However, its implementation has remained limited amid Georgia’s democratic backsliding and the increasingly authoritarian control of the ruling Georgian Dream party. The controversial Foreign Agent Law in 2023 (tentative) and 2024 (adoption), the subsequent removal of gender terms in all government documents in 2025, and the adoption of the Foreign Agents Registration Act (FARA) in 2025 further strained relations between the government and civil society, contributing to a hostile environment for any gender equality advocacy, as discussed later. As such, each WPS NAP in Georgia has represented a step forward, improving participation, coordination, and lessons learned from previous cycles. Still, meaningful progress toward gender-equal peace remains an ongoing struggle in the country, especially since 2023. 

Armenia

Armenia’s journey with the WPS agenda has followed a different path; though, like in Georgia, it is also tied to the country’s democratization. WPS advocacy there began much later, taking shape in the early 2010s. However, the real momentum came after the 2018 Velvet Revolution, a turning point that reshaped the country’s political and social landscape.

In spring 2018, massive peaceful protests swept across Armenia, forcing the resignation of long-time leader Serzh Sargsyan and bringing Nikol Pashinyan to power through democratic elections. The Velvet Revolution marked a profound shift: it broke with decades of entrenched post-Soviet elites known as the “Karabakh clan” and opened the way for democratic reforms and a stronger orientation toward the West. Women played central roles in these movements—leading, organizing, and mobilizing—continuing Armenia’s long tradition of women’s activism. Following the Revolution, the government underwent a significant reshuffle. Many new officials came from civil society and brought progressive ideas that sharply contrasted with the previous regime. This infusion of new voices encouraged a more open political atmosphere: freedom of speech, assembly, and engagement improved. It was in this context that Armenian feminists found new opportunities to engage with government institutions again, pushing harder for the adoption of a WPS NAP. 

Although, advocacy for WPS in Armenia began years before the Revolution, even if it stayed under the radar. During the 2010s, feminist NGOs were already identifying women’s challenges related to the conflict, building informal peace networks (more specifically related to Resolution 1325, as women peace networks were established right after the First Karabakh war), and raising awareness of Resolution 1325. They conducted shadow reporting, published educational materials, organized training sessions, and mapped local WPS initiatives, all without a formal NAP in place. When Armenia finally adopted its first NAP (2019–2021) in 2019, optimism soon turned into disappointment. According to my interviewees, the NAP was drafted in a top-down manner, mainly focused on defense and security, and with little consultation with civil society, excluding key NGOs that had long led WPS-related efforts. This exclusion caused frustration and reshaped the WPS landscape. Before the first NAP, more anti-militarist feminist groups were active in WPS-related peace advocacy; after its adoption, new organizations emerged and took the lead, often with priorities and approaches that the original feminist groups would qualify as neoliberal. 

The first NAP was developed at a time when Armenia was still in a “no war, no peace” situation with Azerbaijan, before the devastating 2020 war that changed everything. The war, which we discuss in the following section, derailed the first NAP’s implementation and heavily influenced the development of the second. By the time the second NAP was being developed, Armenia had suffered significant losses and faced a new balance of power in the region. Still, this second NAP (2022–2024), adopted in June 2022, was notably more participatory. It involved broader civil society participation, working groups, and public consultations, and also better reflected new realities, such as the needs of displaced women and those living in border communities. While the first two NAPs faced major challenges, there were signs of progress. Armenia’s third NAP process, soon to be adopted by Parliament appears to be more collaborative and inclusive. This shift could signal a potentially stronger, more inclusive future for WPS advocacy in the country.

Here, I have provided a brief overview of the NAP processes in each country. However, it is important to emphasize that WPS NAPs are only one manifestation of broader conflict resolution and peacebuilding processes at the national level; these documents are advocacy tools that provide a common language and framework for issues related to gender, peace, and security. 

The 2022 Russian full-scale invasion and the 2020 Second Nagorno-Karabakh War as geopolitical turning points 

Georgia

In Georgia, Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine reopened deep national wounds. It triggered memories of past wars and revived fears that conflict could once again spill into Georgia and its Russian-occupied regions, Abkhazia and the former South Ossetian Autonomous Region (South Ossetia). But the invasion also accelerated troubling political trends at home. Since then, Georgia has faced growing democratic backsliding, with the ruling Georgian Dream party promoting more anti-liberal rhetoric, tightening restrictions on civil society, and passing authoritarian laws such as the Foreign Agent Law and FARA. Despite strong cultural and emotional ties between Georgians and Ukrainians, the Georgian Dream government chose not to join international sanctions against Russia in 2022. Many citizens viewed this stance as overly cautious, if not sympathetic to Moscow, fueling accusations that the government was pursuing “Russia-appeasing” policies and drifting back into Russia’s orbit.

The invasion’s impact on Georgia has been both direct and indirect. It disrupted key peace mechanisms like the Geneva International Discussions (GID) and the Incident Prevention and Response Mechanism (IPRM), sparked anti-government protests, and heightened tensions with de facto authorities in Abkhazia and South Ossetia. The war also hit the economies of both breakaway regions, which depend heavily on Russia, further isolating them, and delayed Georgia’s fourth WPS NAP. Civil society, especially women-led NGOs, found themselves stretched thin, responding simultaneously to new humanitarian needs and a surge of disinformation and anti-Western propaganda. Since 2022, Georgia has welcomed more than 24,000 Ukrainian refugees while also experiencing large inflows of Russian men fleeing the draft. 

A recurring theme in my interviews with Georgian women is the persistent insecurity tied to Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Although analysts often call these “frozen conflicts,” they are far from static. From a feminist security perspective, the term can obscure how much militarization and a constant feeling of fear and sense of vulnerability still shape daily life. Along the administrative boundary lines (ABLs), Russian and de facto authorities pursue “borderization” and “creeping occupation,” building fences and pushing borders further into Georgian-controlled areas. These illegal actions have annexed entire villages and forcibly separated families, as NGOs on the ground have documented. Fear of renewed conflict, intimidation, kidnappings, and unlawful detentions is part of the reality for those near the ABLs. Women IDPs and those living near the ABLs face daily insecurity, restricted mobility, and limited access to healthcare, education, transportation, and land. For many Georgians, these unresolved conflicts shape their understanding of peace and security, and influence how they design and implement policies like the NAP.

Armenia

In Armenia, fears of war and loss are part of everyday life, too. Since independence in 1991, the country has endured repeated shocks, economic crises, political upheavals, and multiple wars over Nagorno-Karabakh. The most recent, in 2020, reopened profound national trauma and revived existential anxieties dating back to the Armenian genocide.

The Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, like other conflicts of the former Soviet space, was never truly “frozen.” Sporadic clashes and “low-intensity” violence continued along the line of contact between Armenian and Azerbaijani forces from 1994 until 2020. The Second Nagorno-Karabakh War, also known as the 44-day war, erupted on 27 September 2020 and ended when Russia brokered a ceasefire on November 9. As part of that deal, Russian peacekeepers were deployed to the region, and Azerbaijan regained seven districts lost during the first war, plus parts of Nagorno-Karabakh itself.

The human toll was devastating. Azerbaijani shelling of populated areas, including Stepanakert, killed around 72 civilians and 4,000 Armenian soldiers. Some 90,000 people, mostly women and children, were displaced, losing their homes and livelihoods. Civilian infrastructure was deliberately targeted, and local NGOs documented severe human rights abuses, including cases of sexual violence and torture. To make matters worse, the war unfolded at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, complexifying the humanitarian crisis. Despite women being heavily involved on the ground, “We [Armenians] only glorify the men who sacrificed their lives,” one independent expert told me in 2022, “and the women are just left there, their work in the shadows.”

Crucially, the 2020 war dramatically altered the balance of power in the South Caucasus. Once the “winner” of the First Nagorno-Karabakh war, Armenia suffered heavy territorial, human, and psychological losses in the Second. Backed by Turkey and Israel, Azerbaijan emerged militarily and politically stronger, reclaiming large parts of Nagorno-Karabakh, including the strategic cities of Shushi/Shusha, Hadrut, and Fizuli/Varanda. The consequences of that war are still unfolding. Border clashes resumed during my fieldwork in 2022, followed by the 9-month blockade of the Lachin corridor (2022–2023), the only route connecting Nagorno-Karabakh to the outside world. In September 2023, an Azerbaijani offensive led to the forced displacement and ethnic cleansing of the remaining 120,000 Armenians in the region, resulting in the complete dissolution of the previously-called Republic of Artsakh on January 1, 2024.

The Russian invasion of Ukraine also caused major geopolitical shifts in the South Caucasus, including Russia’s reduced involvement in the region and Turkey’s increased influence, which encouraged Azerbaijan’s coercive diplomatic and military moves. Armenia, distancing itself from its former ally Russia and aligning more with the EU and the West, has been on a path of democratization since the 2018 Revolution, though systemic issues remain.

The 2020 war and subsequent events naturally disrupted Armenia’s WPS efforts. Patriarchal gender norms in Armenian society worsened after 2020 as a direct result of the conflict. Although some legislative progress has been made regarding gender, interviewees reported that discussions about “women’s issues” were often sidelined and considered less urgent than national security after 2020. Implementation of the first NAP came to a halt as the government’s focus and limited resources shifted predominantly to national security concerns, causing delays in developing the second NAP. Meanwhile, women’s rights and feminist organizations became first responders, providing vital humanitarian aid, psychosocial support, and assistance to displaced families, often with minimal funding and on survival mode, having to pivot their focus from their usual activities. 

Feminist pathways to peacebuilding: Achievements, failures, and challenges

Georgia

Georgia had long been recognized as a regional leader in advancing the WPS agenda. This reputation grew from early advocacy efforts and strong alliances between feminist civil servants, members of Parliament, a vibrant civil society, and international partners such as UN Women Georgia. Yet, since 2023, these alliances have fractured as democratic backsliding has deepened. Many key “femocrats” (feminist bureaucrats) have either been removed from government or aligned with the ruling party, while feminist NGOs now face increasing threats to their work, with some have already shutting down, and the civil society space is continuously shrinking.

Historically, Georgia has also been a regional hub for informal peacebuilding and women-to-women diplomacy across the South Caucasus, with Georgian women building connections among Georgian, Abkhaz, Ossetian, Armenian, Chechen, and Azerbaijani women (though meetings among them were not necessarily held in Georgia). Despite this legacy, women remain largely absent from formal peace talks. Several interviewees criticized the NAPs for failing to challenge growing militarization or transform conflicts at their roots. Indeed, although all four NAPs identify IDP and conflict-affected women as primary beneficiaries, in practice, women in Abkhazia and South Ossetia were never consulted during the drafting processes due to limited access and government reach. Many interviewees saw this exclusion as one of Georgia’s most significant WPS shortcomings. As one civil society leader shared, “to be heard, our criticisms must be constructive, not in opposition to the government.” This sentiment illustrates how some WPS narratives are deemed acceptable, while others, especially those diverging from the national narratives on conflicts, are silenced. As such, WPS is treated as a “soft issue,” depoliticized, and reduced to a technocratic exercise that limits diverse feminist voices and opinions.

Still, despite these constraints, many women activists continue to see the NAP as a valuable advocacy tool. It provides an international framework and shared language to articulate their priorities, lending their work legitimacy, visibility, and structure. “The only official document giving us the opportunity to work on conflict prevention is the NAP on 1325,” one interviewee told me. Another IDP woman added, “I don’t want to be somewhere where my future is decided without me.” For many, the NAP’s greatest contribution lies less in the text itself than in the conversations and spaces it opened. 

Another major source of pride among those I interviewed is the localization of WPS through municipal action plans. These locally driven initiatives adapt the NAP to municipality realities, from conducting needs assessments to training local officials and raising awareness among women and marginalized groups. According to my interviewees, this work relies on the commitment of local women’s NGOs and gender focal points, supported by national and international feminist organizations, resulting in concrete improvements at the municipality level, for example, in infrastructure or access to services.

Before 2023, WPS was not only an advocacy framework but also a diplomatic asset. It helped Georgia advance its Euro-Atlantic aspirations and project itself internationally as a peaceful, democratic actor distinct from Russia. That image, however, has eroded. The attempted and later successful adoption of the Foreign Agent Law in 2023–2024, followed by mass protests, riot police brutality, and the introduction of new anti-LGBTQIA+ and anti-gender laws signaled a decisive turn toward autocracy. Today, as civic space shrinks and democratic institutions weaken, the future of WPS in Georgia is increasingly uncertain. Yet even amid this democratic decline, WPS continues to offer a fragile but vital space for feminist action, creativity, and resilience.

Armenia

In Armenia, the WPS landscape is scattered, tense, and deeply complex. Unlike Georgia, where strong feminist alliances once flourished, Armenia’s advocacy around WPS is fractured, marked by mistrust both between civil society and government and among feminists themselves. Many antimilitarist groups reject the WPS agenda altogether, seeing it as a co-opted, liberal feminist project detached from its radical roots. Women’s participation in the military remains a particularly contentious issue, for example. For many Armenian women, especially those outside Yerevan, the WPS agenda feels distant. “The actual conflict-affected people do not know about this NAP,” explained a woman peacebuilder I interviewed. The language and processes of WPS remain confined to a small “elite” circle of NGOs and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Others, however, choose to strategically engage with WPS and the opportunities it provides.

Despite legislative progress on gender equality after the Velvet Revolution, Armenian women continue to face barriers to bodily autonomy, safety, and financial independence. LGBTQIA+ women, women with disabilities, poor women, and those living with HIV experience heightened discrimination. Deeply entrenched patriarchal norms still shape women’s life choices and safety. Militarization, fear of war, and widespread gender-based violence, particularly in rural and border regions, compound these challenges. 

Both Armenian and Azerbaijani women have long engaged in peacebuilding initiatives, yet they remain excluded from Track 1 peace processes, which are still dominated by male elites. After the 2020 Nagorno-Karabakh war, peacebuilding in Armenia became even more fraught. The war’s outcome shifted the regional balance of power in Azerbaijan’s favor, leaving Armenians deeply traumatized. Within this context, peacebuilding has been stigmatized, seen as weakness or even betrayal. As such, several women peacebuilders described to me the creative strategies they have developed to continue their work under these conditions, often reframing or rebranding activities to avoid backlash. The post-2020 period also marked the collapse of decades of informal cooperation between Armenian and Azerbaijani women, although rare initiatives like the Feminist Peace Collective exist. Many Armenian women I interviewed in 2022–23 felt profound grief and disillusionment as former Azeri peacebuilding partners posted nationalistic content online, for example. The loss of trust was palpable, a sense that “all the hard peacebuilding work of the past decades was erased.” 

This atmosphere of despair is not unique to Armenia. Across the South Caucasus, I sensed a growing fatigue and discouragement about the possibilities of peace. “On one hand, it’s clear that WPS is more important than ever,” a youth and gender expert in Tbilisi told me, “but on the other hand, people no longer believe in it.”

Shrinking civic space, diverging paths 

In both contexts, women’s meaningful participation in WPS is uneven. Conflict-affected women’s concerns are often represented through NGOs with grassroots ties, but those who lack access to English, do not master the “WPS language”, or live outside the capitals struggle to make their voices heard. Ethnic minorities, LGBTQ+ persons, women with disabilities, and younger women are rarely visible in formal WPS processes, exposing generational and intersectional gaps. For many women, a full realization of WPS still means access to land, healthcare, childcare, safe transport, and freedom from fear – basic yet unrealized dimensions of human security.

In both Armenia and Georgia, feminist activists and peacebuilders who diverge from the main narratives face hostility. They are routinely targeted, harassed, and labeled “traitors” or “foreign agents”, respectively, by nationalist groups, both online and offline. Hate speech, disinformation, and militarized narratives spoil public space, eroding trust and endangering women human rights defenders. In Armenia, even if the “peace process” is currently at the top of Pashinyan’s political agenda, feminist activists working on peacebuilding, sexual education, LGBTQ+ rights or gender-based violence are often accused of betraying traditional values. In Georgia, similar attacks are backed by the Georgian Orthodox Church, the Georgian Dream government, and rising ultra-nationalist discourse, but the repercussions are much harsher than in Armenia, especially now, for those in the civil society sector targeted as ‘foreign agents.’  

While both countries face shrinking civic space, their WPS trajectories diverge. Georgia’s earlier success in institutionalizing WPS, through localized action plans and previously strong feminist-government alliances, has been undermined by democratic backsliding and the rise of anti-gender politics. Armenia’s struggle, by contrast, stems notably from fragmented feminist networks, limited public understanding of WPS, and a political environment marked by insecurity and trauma, although progress appears to be happening during the ongoing third NAP process. Yet, in both countries, the WPS agenda remains a critical lever, a shared language, a legitimizing space, and a fragile but vital tool to hold governments accountable. It offers women’s NGOs a foothold to advocate for peace and gender justice, even amid democratic erosion and war fatigue. Ultimately, while WPS in the South Caucasus is constrained by militarization and patriarchy, it continues to serve as a space for feminist creativity and resilience. In both Armenia and Georgia, women persist, using the limited tools available to them for visibility, solidarity, and resistance.

WPS at a crossroads in the South Caucasus: What’s next? 

This research shows that the emergence, advocacy, and implementation of WPS NAPs never occur in a vacuum. They are profoundly shaped by their political and geopolitical environments, from who participates in drafting to which priorities are funded and how governments instrumentalize WPS as a symbol of democracy and progress.

Across contexts, NAPs depend on feminist alliances, linking femocrats, feminist civil society, and gender experts who navigate inside and outside institutions. Femocrats know bureaucratic systems and open policy windows; feminist CSOs bring local legitimacy and grounded expertise; and gender experts, often linked to international organizations such as UN Women, translate feminist demands into institutional language. These coalitions, however, are fragile and evolve with political tides. In Georgia, once a regional leader in WPS, the very alliances that built the agenda have fractured amid democratic backsliding. In Armenia, by contrast, collaboration between government and civil society has strengthened over time, reflecting a tentative democratic turn.

The trajectories of both countries mirror their broader political paths. Georgia’s WPS leadership has waned as authoritarian tendencies deepen and Euro-Atlantic ambitions fade. The once-celebrated NAP processes have stalled, with no new plan in sight. Armenia, meanwhile, has moved in the opposite direction: its third NAP reflects genuine civil society participation and growing alignment with European democratic norms. These contrasting experiences underscore how democratization can bolster WPS, but also how autocratization can swiftly erode it. Georgia’s case, in particular, illustrates how gains for women’s rights and peacebuilding are never guaranteed and often the first ones to be scapegoated and sacrificed. Political crises—the foreign agent law, anti-gender rhetoric, and shrinking civic space—have diverted attention and resources from WPS. The future of its fifth NAP[4] is uncertain, exposing how fragile institutional progress can be when democracy regresses. Armenia, conversely, views WPS as part of its democratic image and foreign policy realignment toward the West, even as peace with Azerbaijan remains elusive. Beyond the so-called Trump Route for Peace & Prosperity (TRIPP), a comprehensive peace agreement, taking justice, reparations for decades of war, and women’s meaningful participation in it seriously, has yet to be signed.

Despite divergent paths, both countries share persistent challenges: a gap between rhetoric and implementation, heavy donor dependency, chronic underfunding, and the continued exclusion of women from decision-making. But there are limits to what civil society, feminist, and women’s rights organizations can shoulder, especially in a region that is underfunded and more restricted than any other region in the world. In a global context of crumbling multilateralism, growing authoritarianism, and attacks on democratic institutions, sustaining WPS efforts on the ground will be increasingly difficult. Yet, amid these constraints, the creativity and determination of Georgian and Armenian feminists endure. Their persistence shows that even in times of crisis, the WPS agenda is way more than just a formal policy tool; it remains a space for resistance, imagination, and a valuable language to frame their ongoing fight for peace and justice, even at the margins.