Abkhazia proclaims sovereignty, Georgia claims it, and Russia controls it. The energy crisis shows how the de facto republic survives only in the unresolved tension between aspiration, international law, and dependency.

When the lights in Abkhazia went out this winter, Sokhumi found itself suddenly illuminated in another way: the recurring blackouts drew the attention of international observers, exposing the precarious foundation of the “de facto” republic. Official statements blamed the crisis on low water levels at the Inguri hydropower plant and soaring demand from crypto-mining farms, which has expanded uncontrollably since 2017.

However, the well-known political context and the timing suggest something more deliberate. As pointed out by the few independent media across the borderline between Abkhazia, Georgia, and Russia, the power shortages have unsurprisingly coincided with Moscow’s decision to suspend energy subsidies. With the Kremlin demanding long-delayed concessions from de facto authorities, darkness in Sukhumi has become the unveiled backdrop for a power play abroad.

The social unrest deriving from the multiple blackouts brought the crisis to escalate into politics. President Aslan Bzhania, already unpopular, resigned under pressure from street protests and elite discontent. Snap elections followed. In a campaign shaped as much by kilowatts as by slogans, acting leader Badra Gunba emerged victorious. His win was sealed after Moscow stepped in with decisive support, promising to restore aid and increase electricity supplies. The message was clear: sovereignty in Abkhazia is not measured at the border but at the power switch.

Every blackout underscored the weakness of local institutions; every reconnection reminded Sokhumi of its dependence on Russia. In Abkhazia, electricity is not just infrastructure. It is leverage, governance, and a tool through which Moscow ensures that the territory’s proclaimed independence remains tightly wired to its patron.

Built in the USSR, broken in Sokhumi

The foundations of Abkhazia’s current energy crisis lie in the Soviet legacy. Built in the 1970s, the Inguri Hydropower Plant remains the backbone of the region’s electricity supply. Its location, on the boundary between Abkhazia and Georgia proper, has produced one of the most paradoxical arrangements in post-Soviet space. Despite decades of conflict and the absence of diplomatic relations, the plant is still managed jointly, representing one of the most unusual cases of practical cooperation between a de facto republic and its parent states. Tbilisi controls the dam and main reservoir, while Abkhazia distributes roughly 40% of the generated electricity. This fragile compromise has endured, but it leaves both sides dependent on an aging piece of infrastructure vulnerable to political manipulation, also by the intervention of external actors.

Following the 1992–1993 war, Abkhazia lost access to Georgia’s gas supply. Since then, households and businesses have relied almost entirely on electricity for heating and cooking. Demand steadily outpaced the capacity of the grid, while tariffs remained artificially low and collection rates dismal. In 2019, Chernomorenergo, the state-owned power company of Abkhazia and the only one allowed to operate at the Enguri Dam, reported that only 58% of consumers paid their bills, leaving debts of more than 250 million rubles (about €3.4 million at the time). The lack of funds, resulting in chronic underinvestment, and the obvious state of disruption resulting from the war’s aftermath meant that lines, substations, and meters were never modernized.

By the early 2000s, dependence on Russia became structural, driven by both pressure and necessity. When Inguri output fell short, Moscow stepped in with emergency supplies, embedding Abkhazia’s vulnerability into its relationship with its patron state. What looked like technical support was in reality political leverage. Subsidized energy flows, together with financial transfers, direct salaries for public employees, and other welfare benefits, allowed Moscow to secure loyalty from local elites while keeping Sokhumi economically afloat.

This fragile arrangement masked deeper internal weaknesses. Abkhazia proclaimed independence unilaterally in 1999 and celebrated recognition from Russia in 2008, but in practice its sovereignty has always been conditional on outside energy flows, political interplays, and external support. Its limited international engagement, confirmed by the recognition of just five independent states, has resulted in a low-diversified economy, no gas supply, and no capacity to improve or maintain its Soviet-era infrastructure. In this severe context of scarcity, every Moscow kilowatt became a reminder of dependence. As analysts noted, Abkhazia’s “sovereignty is not measured by flags or institutions, but by who controls the power switch.

Moscow turns off the lights

By the end of 2023, the arrangement that had long sustained Abkhazia’s energy sector was abruptly dismantled. For over a decade, since Russia’s recognition of Abkhazia in 2008, Moscow had provided electricity at no cost, presenting it as a gesture of solidarity with its loyal ally. Suddenly, that practice was brought to an end. Russia demanded massive advance payment for every kilowatt, with the initial bill amounting to hundreds of millions of rubles for just a few months of consumption. Simultaneously, salary supplements for Abkhaz public employees, another key channel of Russian support and usually instrumentalized for political benefits, were suspended.

This was a political choice rather than a financial adjustment. At the same time as the subsidies were removed, Sokhumi was under increased pressure to enact legislation that would permit Russian nationals to buy land and property in Abkhazia. For years, this so-called "land law" has sparked heated domestic debate. Large segments of the Abkhaz elite and the active part of civil society opposed the reforms, convinced that they would threaten the de facto republic's cultural and demographic foundation, long tied to the idea of independence, and that they could ultimately open the door to a slow, subtle annexation through property ownership. By linking electricity supplies to the land law, Moscow made clear that loyalty and concessions were now prerequisites for maintaining even the most basic stability.

The effects on the ground were immediate. Rolling blackouts spread across the territory, justified officially as the result of low water levels at the Inguri plant or technical failures in Russia’s own grid, but widely understood as a political signal. Debts accumulated by households and enterprises left the electricity company effectively bankrupt, unable to cover consumption without external help. With no alternatives, gas supplies had been cut off since the 1990s. As a result, the population depended entirely on electricity for heating, cooking, and daily life. Each outage, therefore, was not just an inconvenience but a reminder of political dependence.

The energy crisis soon merged with the political crisis. Protests in Sokhumi grew louder, not only against the inefficiency of local authorities but also against the visible and dangerous fact that Moscow was dictating the conditions of survival. President Aslan Bzhania, already weakened by declining legitimacy, was forced to resign under mounting pressure. In the snap elections that followed in early 2025, Russia openly backed its preferred candidate, Badra Gunba. His campaign was accompanied by the promise that Russian subsidies and electricity flows would resume under his leadership. When Gunba secured victory, Moscow quickly rewarded him: financial aid restarted, and electricity deliveries were normalized.

Equally symbolic was the reopening of Sokhumi’s airport, closed since the early 1990s. The launch of direct flights to Moscow was presented as a breakthrough in connectivity, but it also underlined the political trajectory of the de facto republic. Abkhazia’s external openings are increasingly one-directional, binding it more closely to Russia’s orbit.

These episodes underlined the obvious asymmetry at the heart of the relationship. Abkhazia’s proclaimed sovereignty exists only within the limits set by Moscow’s energy policy. The withdrawal of electricity subsidies was not simply an economic measure; it was a political instrument designed to extract concessions on issues as fundamental as land ownership. In this sense, the blackout crisis demonstrated with unusual clarity how easily Moscow can translate technical dependency into political compliance.

Abkhazia and the Cost of (In)dependence

Abkhazia’s political condition is defined, in its essence, by contradiction. On one hand, its leaders and much of its population continue to insist on independence, portraying themselves as a nation that fought for and won the right to govern outside of Tbilisi’s control. Yet this aspiration unfolds against the backdrop of Georgia’s legitimate sovereignty, enshrined in international law, universally recognized but unenforceable on the ground. The gap between aspiration and legal reality is filled by dependence.

That dependence is most visible in energy. Without Russian electricity and subsidies, daily life in Sokhumi stalls. Each blackout has exposed how little room the de facto authorities have to act autonomously, while each reconnection has reinforced the reality that survival depends on Moscow’s approval. The attempt to regulate crypto-mining, recurring blackouts, and mounting debts all underscore that Abkhazia cannot sustain its infrastructure without outside support.

For Moscow, this vulnerability is not a liability but an asset. By withholding or restoring subsidies, linking energy flows to concessions such as land legislation, and rewarding compliant leaders with restored aid and connectivity, Russia has perfected a form of soft power that secures its dominance without formal annexation. The reopening of Sokhumi’s airport with direct flights to Moscow epitomizes this trajectory: the more Abkhazia tries to open outward, the more it is drawn into Russia’s orbit.

The paradox could not be sharper. Abkhazia proclaims sovereignty, but it cannot exercise it. Georgia claims sovereignty, but it cannot enforce it. Russia, meanwhile, exploits the impasse to entrench its influence on the Black Sea. The result is a territory where independence is celebrated in rhetoric, but dependence is lived in practice, a condition symbolized every time the lights go out in Sokhumi and flicker back on only at the Kremlin’s command.