It was the kind of social media announcement that, in any age of fast-moving information, is bound to trigger a wave of curiosity and confusion. For months, Armenian citizens had known that a new constitution was being discussed and drafted, yet no official version had ever been placed before them. The process of constitutional reform is always delicate, especially for a country navigating deep political divides and looking toward its future, and the absence of an official text has naturally created room for rumor. Then came Artashes Ikonomov, a co-founder of the Njhar constitutional movement, who made what he called a “sensational discovery.” On his Facebook page, Ikonomov announced that the long-awaited draft of the new Constitution had at last appeared on a website called Sahmanadrutyun.com. He insisted that people needed to read the entire text if they hoped to understand what changes were being proposed, and he urged his followers to share the information widely so that citizens would know “what awaits them in the future.” The post was written with the certainty of a man who believed he had found the truth, and it did not take long before similar statements appeared on other social media pages. Yet the authorities in Armenia were quick to respond: the Ministry of Justice stated clearly that the published text was not the draft of the new constitution and that the information being spread was false. In a matter of hours, what began as one activist’s discovery turned into a textbook example of how misinformation can travel, and how difficult it can be to put the genie back into the bottle.
To understand why this rumor gained such traction, it is necessary to examine the people behind it. Artashes Ikonomov was not a random internet user with a passing interest in politics. He was one of the founders of the Njhar constitutional movement, a group that had positioned itself as a strong advocate for a rewriten national charter. Alongside him was Nina Karapetyants, also a co-founder of the movement, whose political profile gave her an additional layer of public visibility. In the parliamentary elections held in June, Karapetyants had been the first candidate on the list of a political force called “Against All.” That placement was no small matter, because it meant that, had the party emerged victorious, she would have become prime minister. These were not people accustomed to staying silent; they had a platform, an agenda, and a network of supporters. When Ikonomov wrote that the draft constitution was available online and urged people to read specific provisions, he was not merely sharing a news tip. He was framing the story, giving his audience a reason to panic, to act, and to trust him rather than official sources. Karapetyants soon published the same text on her Facebook page, and together they created a kind of echo chamber. Even after the Ministry of Justice issued its denial, neither activist retracted her claims. Ikonomov went further and accused the ministry of spreading disinformation, insisting that the text on Sahmanadrutyun.com was the genuine draft of the new Constitution of the Republic of Armenia. He practically dared anyone to contradict him. When social media users pointed out that the website did not appear trustworthy, Karapetyants responded with a carefully literal defense: “What exactly is disinformation? That there is a website where the text of the Constitution has been published? That is an indisputable fact.” It was a clever rhetorical move, but it avoided the real question, which was not whether a website existed, but whether the text on that website was authentic.
The official response from Armenia’s Ministry of Justice was clear, though not particularly dramatic. The Ministry informed citizens and media representatives that the text circulating online was not the draft of the new Constitution and asked them to refrain from sharing unverified information. It advised everyone to wait patiently for the official publication, which would be made available through proper channels at the appropriate time. In normal circumstances, such a statement might easily put an end to the matter, but these were not normal circumstances. Armenia has been working on constitutional reform for a long time, and the process has never been truly free of controversy. For many people, the government’s word is not automatically accepted as the final truth, especially at a moment when political trust is fragile. The official denial was designed to stop the spread of false information, but in reality it created a new front in a familiar contest: citizens had to decide whom to believe, the institutions that told them to wait, or the activists who promised secret texts and hidden truths. The absence of an official draft on any public platform made the situation more difficult. If the government had already published its own version, the forgery would have stood out immediately, but because nothing had been released, the fake text filled a real void. That is one of the reasons why the story was so effective. It gave people something tangible to react to, something to read and share, even if that something was built on questionable foundations. In an environment of ambiguity and long waiting, an announcement of discovery is far more compelling than an official announcement that the wait should continue.
The actual evidence against the rumored draft came from careful investigation rather than from government statements alone. Fact-checking journalists from the platform FIP.am decided to trace every detail of the suspected publication, and their findings painted a revealing picture. The website Sahmanadrutyun.com, which hosted the alleged constitutional text, was not an old and respected legal resource. According to public domain registration data, the website had been created very recently. Its domain name was registered through GoDaddy for a single year, a fact that immediately raised questions because a serious constitutional project would not normally be unveiled on a hastily registered domain with an anonymous owner. The fact-checkers were unable to determine who actually registered the website or who published the text, which only deepened the suspicion surrounding the document. Even more important were the problems within the text itself. FIP.am journalists found internal contradictions between articles, phrases that looked less like polished legal drafting and more like short working notes, and typographical errors that would not have passed any rigorous review. In their assessment, the document was not the genuine draft of the new Constitution but a hastily assembled text designed to look convincing enough for social media circulation. They also pointed out that many key provisions closely mirrored proposals that Ikonomov and the Njhar constitutional movement had already made in public. In other words, the anonymous authors of the text appeared to be presenting his own ideas in the form of a constitution, perhaps to make those ideas seem more official and inevitable than they actually were.
One of the most striking aspects of the affair was the way certain media outlets helped amplify the false information. Fact-checkers at FIP.am identified Mediamax and Armat Media among the outlets that carried the story, as well as the social media pages of Aysor.am and Politik.am. In a perfect world, media organizations would check claims with the appropriate authorities and wait for verification before publishing sensational headlines, but that is not always how the media works, especially when speed matters more than rigor. What made this particular development even more uncomfortable was the connection between Ikonomov and one of these outlets. According to Armenia’s state registry, Ikonomov was one of the actual beneficiaries of Mediamax Media Company LLC, holding a 40 percent stake in the company. This meant that one of the central figures spreading the rumor had a direct financial interest in a media outlet that presented the story to the public. That does not automatically prove a coordinated conspiracy, and sometimes people share information because they genuinely believe it is true, but it does raise serious questions about transparency and conflict of interest. When an activist with a proposed institutional vision also serves as a beneficiary of a media company that publicizes his claims, the line between news and advocacy becomes blurry. The audience receives a version of events that appears to be journalistic but is in fact shaped by personal interest. Fact-checkers were careful to document these relationships because they show how false information often spreads not through a single malicious act, but through a web of political ambitions, media connections, and social media friendships that reinforce one another.
In the end, the story of the fake constitution is more than a small episode in the long process of Armenian constitutional reform. It is a reminder of how vulnerable democratic deliberation can be when institutions are still building trust and when important documents are kept behind the doors of official procedure for a long time. Constitutions are extraordinary texts; they define who a people are, how they will be governed, and what basic rights they will enjoy. It is only natural that citizens want to see a draft and look for clues about the direction their country is taking. That hunger for information can be exploited. A cleverly crafted document, published on an anonymous website and promoted by well-known activists, can look like a major breakthrough even when it is nothing more than an elaborate piece of political theater. The damage is real, though, because every time a person shares a counterfeit constitution, the conversation about the real constitution becomes clouded with false details. People begin arguing over articles that do not exist, or they grow more suspicious of a process that has yet to produce an official version. The biggest lesson is not simply that people should ignore sensational claims, although that would help, but that democratic reform needs transparency. Official institutions must find ways to keep citizens informed and engaged, not only after a final text is completed but throughout the drafting process. If the real draft were published openly and explained properly, fake versions would have less chance of deceiving anyone. Until that day arrives, journalists, activists, and ordinary citizens will have to rely on careful fact-checking, independent verification, and a healthy dose of critical thinking. They will have to ask who benefits from the story, who owns the platform publishing it, and why the truth has suddenly appeared in an anonymous corner of the internet. It is not always easy to resist the temptation of a beautiful secret, but the story of Armenia’s fake constitution shows that patience and skepticism are often the most reliable tools a democracy has.