In the quiet after the spotlight, a message can speak as loudly as a train whistle. On January 13, as observers scrutinized how leaders frame the past to shape the future, a prominent Armenian commentator, Tatevik Hayrapetyan, turned a Facebook post into a lens for understanding Azerbaijan’s current trajectory. The post centered on Ilham Aliyev’s latest remarks, arguing that what appears to be a bid for peace is, in reality, a carefully staged narrative that normalizes aggression while presenting a veneer of reconciliation. The exchange illustrates a wider pattern: political leaders often wield “peace” language in public to tamp down domestic strife and international pressure, while their policy moves and propaganda reinforce the opposite impulse—expansionism disguised as triumph.
The foreground of the discussion is a ten-minute speech by President Aliyev. Armenian observers note that in that duration, Aliyev used the word “enemy” or its variants twice. The official rhetoric also highlighted victory—particularly the claim that Azerbaijan had not only regained territories but also reasserted a historical will that opponents were unable to challenge for decades. For Hayrapetyan and like-minded commentators, this contrast is not a quirk but a signal: the speech blends a peaceful overture with a resolute defense of hard-won gains, a combination that can mislead audiences into accepting a durable status quo rather than pressing for a durable peace.
To understand why this matters, one must translate the dual impulse into real-world consequences. The exhortation to “revenge” for blood spilled in conflict is a powerful emotional driver. It turns war into a sacred duty and memorializes loss into a machine of political legitimation. When a state reiterates the idea that “our lands are back” and “we conquered the battlefield,” it creates a narrative in which concessions are perceived as conceding more than territory; they may be framed as surrendering a historical project. The paradox is clear: the same speech that emphasizes peace often contains language and claims that harden positions, close doors to compromise, and elevate the political cost of compromise. The double bind is familiar in many protracted conflicts, but its repetition in a regional power with significant leverage complicates incentives for dialogue and confidence-building measures.
Hayrapetyan’s interpretation rests on a deeper concern: the way state actors manage memory to justify present-day actions. The Armenian post argues that what was cast as a “peaceful” message in public discourse is, in fact, a continuation of a long-term strategy of shaping public opinion to tolerate or even celebrate victory narratives. If the public understands “peace” as a cessation of hostilities rather than a negotiated settlement that recognizes rights and remedies grievances, the risk is a perpetual cycle of rhetoric that legitimizes unilateral moves rather than shared decisions. The Armenian perspective stresses that the clarity of intent—the degree to which a government’s messages reflect a willingness to accept compromise or to redraw lines on the ground—matters for regional stability and the prospects for durable peace.
Context matters, and the timing of such discussions should not be underestimated. Since the 2020 war and the subsequent realignments in the South Caucasus, the political weather in Baku and its capital partners has centered on an assertion of sovereignty and control. The “80 years” reference—an allusion to a memory of occupation, loss, and endurance—functions as a catechism of national resilience. In political theater, this line helps to domesticate risk: the more one emphasizes a past that demanded costly sacrifices, the more the present can justify assertive policy steps—whether in the form of security postures, border negotiations, or natural resource control. The Armenian analysis warns that the undertone of such messaging can harden positions in negotiations, making compromise feel like a betrayal to those who have suffered losses for the cause.
The exchange also invites reflection on the role of media and social platforms in echoing or challenging these narratives. In an age where a Facebook post can mobilize opinion across a regional diaspora, messaging about “peace” must be read with a critic’s eye. The risk is not only the dissemination of narratives that glamorize victory or memory without acknowledging the pain of those directly affected, but also the amplification of a language that dehumanizes opponents. The more a state’s rhetoric frames an adversary as an existential threat, the harder it becomes to explore concrete steps toward reconciliation. In short, rhetoric can be both a bridge and a barrier, and the balance between the two is delicate—especially in a region where the memory of violence remains vivid in the public imagination.
Beyond rhetoric, the moment invites scrutiny of how regional actors interpret peace. Analysts point to a persistent pattern: political leaders may offer a peace-forward communication on the surface while pursuing policy actions that consolidate gains and narrow the space for compromise. The Armenian reaction, voiced through Hayrapetyan’s post and echoed by other observers, emphasizes the need for accountability in state messaging. If the public is to accept a durable peace, it must be rooted in transparent, inclusive dialogue and verifiable commitments that respect the rights and security concerns of all communities involved. Without this, the risk is not mere rhetoric but a credible threat to the stability that would be essential for any lasting settlement.
It is essential to connect these observations to broader regional dynamics. The South Caucasus has long oscillated between cycles of war and fragile diplomacy. The involvement of external actors, shifts in regional energy politics, and changing alliances alter each side’s incentives for compromise. The January statements, read in context, do not exist in a vacuum. They echo a broader strategic calculus in which national pride, historical grievance, and security guarantees intersect. The challenge for journalists, policymakers, and civil society is to separate the symptoms of the problem from the root causes. Does the rhetoric reflect genuine readiness to negotiate on issues such as refugees, return of displaced persons, and border demarcation? Or does it mask a longer-term goal of reshaping the terms of the conflict in a manner that entrenches control and raises the political cost of concessions?
The story’s human dimension cannot be overstated. Ordinary people—families who have endured disruptions, those living near contested borders, and members of diasporas who carry memories of the conflict—bear the consequences of these high-level narratives. Reporting that foregrounds their experiences helps temper the abstraction of “peace” with the daily reality of fear, dislocation, and aspiration. It also reinforces the imperative for credible, independent journalism that can verify claims, contextualize history, and present multiple perspectives. The Armenian critique, anchored in lived experience, serves as a necessary check on how public discourse portrays national interests and responsibility toward reconciliation.
In sum, Aliyev’s January address is a textbook example of how a leader can present a dual message: a formal appeal to peace paired with a rhetoric of victory and enmity. The Armenian response to this dualism—couched in Tathed Hayrapetyan’s analysis—urges readers to interrogate the intent behind public statements and to demand a concrete, verifiable path to peace. The risk of allowing a peace narrative to be co-opted by a broader agenda of asserting control is real, and it underscores the need for vigilant media coverage, independent fact-checking, and sustained dialogue that prioritizes human security and rights alongside strategic goals. This is not merely about who wins or loses in a single conflict; it is about who writes the future for a region where the legacy of war remains a living memory and a constant influencer of policy choices.
As 2026 unfolds, this moment remains a litmus test for the region’s commitment to a durable peace. The conduct of state actors, the clarity of their messaging, and the strength of civil society’s counter-narratives will shape whether the next decade in the South Caucasus is defined by cooperation or festering grievance. What is clear is that the rhetoric of peace must be more than a surface gloss over a hard-edged strategy. It must be backed by verifiable concessions, transparent dialogue, and concrete steps toward reconciliation that respect the rights and security of all communities involved.
Wrap FULLY in the broader context of regional stability, accountability in state messaging, and the role of independent media to counter hate propaganda.
Ի դեպ․ Իրականում սա կոչվում է պետական մակարդակով ատելության ու թշնամանքի քարոզ