Armenia on the Threshold of History: To Be or Not to Be – the Nation’s Choice Between Dignity and Humility
It would be a mistake to believe that Armenia’s current condition is the result of a sudden catastrophe or a tragic chain of circumstances beyond human control. The history of states rarely unfolds blindly. It follows a carefully constructed logic — the logic of decisions, calculations, and predetermined roles that appear chaotic only in retrospect.
The constitutional reform initiated and carried out by Serzh Sargsyan laid the foundations of the system whose consequences the country continues to endure. The transition to a parliamentary form of governance was presented as a step toward democratization, a rejection of authoritarian rule, and a move toward stronger institutions. Yet beneath this apparent rationality lay another logic — that of a managed transfer of power, preserving real influence in a different form. The reform altered not only the text of the Constitution but the very architecture of political responsibility. It blurred the direct link between the voter’s will and the center of decision-making, creating space for maneuvering, where a leader could retain influence without bearing full personal responsibility.
The formal trigger of the “velvet revolution” was Serzh Sargsyan’s breach of his earlier promise not to seek power after completing his presidential term. That promise had been perceived by the public as a verbal covenant — the last gesture of trust between the government and the people. Its violation symbolized a final rupture: not merely a political misstep, but a turning point after which the existing system lost its legitimacy to reproduce itself.
The “velvet revolution” inspired the public not because it offered a clearly articulated vision of the future, but because it restored a sense of dignity. It seemed that the country was finally emerging from stagnation, and that the government and the people were once again aligned. However, this hope proved particularly fragile, as it was not reinforced by institutional reform or by a reassessment of the foundations of national security and foreign policy.
Nikol Pashinyan, rising to power on a wave of public trust, faced a choice: to harness the revolutionary momentum to strengthen the state and restore its security and diplomatic standing, or to follow a path of confrontation, testing the limits of public trust and societal endurance. History suggests that he chose the latter.
The provocation of war was deliberate and began at the very outset of his public policy. Pashinyan’s speech in Stepanakert, in which he declared, “Artsakh is Armenia, full stop,” sounded like a statement of irreconcilability and nullified years of diplomatic efforts aimed at defending Artsakh’s right to self-determination. In effect, for the first time on behalf of the country, Pashinyan declared Armenia a party to the conflict that had “occupied the internationally recognized” territory of Azerbaijan, thereby rendering armed confrontation inevitable. Materials previously published by the Public Tribunal detail the sequence of steps that led the country to defeat.
For the people, the defeat was both military and moral. The national revival that had seemed so tangible not long before turned into shock and a sense of inner emptiness. The language of politics became increasingly primitive — complex processes were reduced to simplistic explanations, responsibility was diffused, and the defeat was presented as an unavoidable outcome for which no one bore accountability. Another blow came from the opposition forces, which, at the most critical moment, failed — or were unwilling — to present a viable alternative. Instead of consolidating society, they deepened divisions, fueling rivalry of ambitions and fragmenting the protests. As a result, the people lost even the remnants of hope for a way out of the crisis and sank into a state of silent apathy.
Today, Pashinyan speaks of peace with Azerbaijan — a peace that does not exist in reality. Is peace possible with a country whose leader openly lays claim to Armenia, calls our capital Yerevan an “ancient” Azerbaijani city of Irevan and refers to Lake Sevan as Goycha, demands constitutional amendments, and insists on the “return” of 300,000 Azerbaijanis? Is peace possible with those who cultivate Armenophobia as a matter of state policy, who systematically destroy cultural and historical heritage in an attempt to erase the traces of Armenians in Artsakh and deprive them of their historical ties to that region?
They say peace is good. Perhaps no one in the world who has experienced war would dispute that. However, when some speak of “peace,” they mean not a condition of security and dignity, but merely the absence of gunfire — a prolonged pause between losses, where silence can sound more ominous than shooting.
Armenia’s current policy toward Azerbaijan speaks the language of exhaustion and renunciation rather than that of confidence and hard-earned balance. Nikol Pashinyan calls his course “peaceful.” He speaks of turning the page of history, of the need to look ahead, of the price the people must pay to avoid losing their sons again. There is truth in these words — bitter, human, hard-won. But there is also something they leave unspoken.
The peace toward which they are leading us appears uncertain: it lacks a sense of security. It does not answer the fundamental question — what will happen tomorrow if the neighbor once again chooses the language of force? It has clarified nothing, strengthened no boundaries, and created no mechanisms capable of preserving balance when the political environment shifts. It exists more on paper than in the lived reality of those who reside in the border regions and know the cost of every gunshot.
The most painful aspect of this issue was not the defeat itself. History contains many tragic pages, and nations have survived far greater catastrophes. What hurt most was the sense that the defeat was accepted as a new normal, rather than as a temporary condition requiring reassessment and internal consolidation. The loss cannot simply be denied; it should be carefully embedded into a new political reality as a sign of maturity and pragmatism.
In the new rhetoric of Armenia’s authorities, the word Artsakh has disappeared. It has vanished not only from diplomatic negotiations, but also from the very logic of state discourse. Its fate is no longer treated as a subject of negotiation, nor even as a problem requiring resolution. The people who were forced to flee their homes have become an uncomfortable reminder of a price that was never openly acknowledged. The state appears to have turned its back on its own shadow, hoping it might somehow fade away. In reality, a part of national memory is disappearing along with the traditional values that sustain the people’s morale. Heroic and tragic chapters of history are being reinterpreted and reshaped into narratives convenient for political rhetoric.
At the same time, the active struggle for international recognition of the Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire is fading — not only as a historical fact, but also as a moral demand reaffirming the right to memory and justice. By demonstratively avoiding this topic, the authorities appear to have opted for diplomatic compromise at the cost of oblivion, transforming historical knowledge into an abstract symbol devoid of force or commitment. This process leads to the erosion of territorial subjectivity and of the nation’s moral and spiritual foundations, turning any “peace” into nothing more than silence after a storm — never true security or dignity.
It is often said that politics is the art of the possible. Yet when the possible amounts only to concession, and protection becomes the impossible, a troubling question arises: has art been replaced by a will to self-liquidation? After all, diplomacy without strength — at least institutional, moral, and strategic, if not military — becomes little more than a plea for clemency. Such pleas are rarely respected.
Particularly alarming is the widening gap between the government and the people. Pashinyan speaks of rationality, sober calculation, and the necessity of difficult decisions. The people live in the reality of loss, memory, pain, and fear of repetition. No visible effort is being made to bridge this divide or even to acknowledge it. It is simply ignored, as if silence could be mistaken for consent.
The people are exhausted. They are genuinely tired of war, anxiety, and the constant anticipation of bad news. Yet exhaustion is a poor foundation for lasting peace. The future cannot be built on fatigue or on temporary conciliation. And this very conciliation is now being presented as national consensus.
Thus, the central question awaiting an answer sounds both simple and frightening: is this the peace we chose, or the peace we were persuaded (or compelled) to accept?
As Armenians approach the polling stations in the summer of 2026, each citizen will be choosing not only among candidates and parties, but between national dignity and conciliation. In making that choice, the people must ask themselves whether they are ready to reclaim their memory, values, and strength or whether they are prepared to settle for exhaustion and the illusion of peace.
Today’s reality poses to the Armenian people a sharp and inevitable question — one reminiscent of Shakespeare: to be or not to be? Not only in the sense of physical survival, but in a deeper moral and historical dimension. To be means to restore national dignity, memory, and values that have been lost or replaced through years of concessions and illusions of unreal peace. To be means to preserve morale, to assert one’s rights and historical justice, and not to allow others to determine the country’s fate. Not to be means to accept capitulation. This is the threshold at which the Armenian people now stand. And every citizen must fully grasp the weight of responsibility that accompanies their choice when they take a ballot in hand.
