The Armenians Azerbaijan Wants to Reconcile With — and the History It Wants Forgotten
Azerbaijan increasingly presents itself as a country that has finally closed the chapter on war. After decades of conflict, Baku has restored control over the territories it lost during the First Artsakh War and now speaks the language of peace, regional integration, economic cooperation and reconciliation. Its diplomatic messaging increasingly focuses on a future of trade, connectivity and normal relations with Armenia, while its victory in the 2020 war and subsequent takeover of Artsakh are presented as the restoration of territorial integrity and the correction of a historic injustice. There is, of course, nothing inherently objectionable about wanting peace. Armenians have every reason to want an end to war and instability, just as Azerbaijanis have every right to remember the civilians killed, the communities displaced and the homes lost during the First Artsakh War. But peace does not begin with forgetting, and reconciliation cannot mean that one side is permitted to decide which parts of the past are legitimate enough to remember.
For Armenians, the history that Azerbaijan increasingly wants to place behind it is not simply a story of two states disputing territory. It includes the anti-Armenian violence that accompanied the collapse of the Soviet Union, the destruction of Armenian communities in Azerbaijani cities, mass displacement, the treatment of Armenian prisoners, the destruction and alteration of Armenian cultural heritage, and, most recently, the disappearance of the Armenian population of Artsakh following Azerbaijan's 2023 military offensive. None of this requires pretending that Azerbaijani suffering did not occur. It requires something more difficult: accepting that two peoples can possess genuine histories of victimhood without those histories cancelling one another out. The suffering of Azerbaijani civilians does not make the suffering of Armenians less real, just as Armenian suffering does not make Azerbaijani victims less deserving of remembrance.
The post-2020 period has also been marked by repeated incidents of cross-border fire and localized military pressure along Armenia's eastern frontier. The Sotk gold mine in Gegharkunik became a particularly striking example. In May 2022, Azerbaijani forces reportedly opened fire in the direction of the mine, wounding a civilian employee, while in April and May 2023 repeated Azerbaijani gunfire forced the evacuation of workers and eventually led GeoProMining to suspend open-pit operations indefinitely; the company reported that equipment had been damaged and that continued work had become impossible because of the security situation. The pressure extended beyond the mine itself. Armenian border communities and military positions around Sotk and elsewhere along the frontier were repeatedly exposed to small-arms fire, mortars and, during more serious escalations, artillery and other weapons. In September 2023, for example, Azerbaijani fire around Sotk killed Armenian servicemen, while both governments accused the other of initiating or escalating particular incidents. Taken individually, these episodes were far smaller than the wars of 2020 and 2023, but collectively they represented a sustained pattern of cross-border coercion and military pressure, with consequences extending into civilian life, employment and the security of Armenian border communities.
The modern history of this conflict is therefore much older than the wars that eventually established the present territorial order. In February 1988, anti-Armenian violence erupted in Sumgait. Armenians were attacked, beaten and killed, while Armenian homes and property were looted and destroyed. Azerbaijan's own Prosecutor General's Office acknowledges that the violence resulted in deaths, hundreds of injuries and extensive property destruction. Its current official account, however, attributes the unrest to a deliberate provocation involving Armenian nationalists and Soviet security structures, arguing that the violence was engineered to discredit Azerbaijan and create the political conditions for Artsakh to separate from Azerbaijan. Azerbaijan's Foreign Ministry advances essentially the same interpretation. These claims are important to include precisely because they represent Baku's own understanding of its history, but they should not be confused with an uncontested historical consensus. What is not seriously in dispute is that Armenians were attacked and that the violence became a defining moment for the Armenian population of Azerbaijan. Even Azerbaijan's official account acknowledges that Azerbaijani residents hid hundreds of Armenians from the attackers, a reminder that responsibility should not be assigned indiscriminately to an entire ethnicity.
The violence did not end with Sumgait. Armenians were subsequently driven from other Azerbaijani cities, including Kirovabad, now Ganja, while the Armenian community of Baku was subjected to a particularly devastating wave of violence in January 1990. Armenians were beaten, killed, robbed and expelled, and the community that had existed in the Azerbaijani capital for generations was effectively destroyed. These events occurred against the background of the Soviet Union's collapse and the increasingly bitter struggle over Artsakh, creating a cycle in which Armenian fears of living under Azerbaijani rule and Azerbaijani fears of Armenian territorial ambitions reinforced one another. By the time full-scale war began, coexistence had already been profoundly damaged.
The First Artsakh War then transformed the conflict from communal violence and political confrontation into a devastating territorial war. Armenian forces took control of Artsakh and surrounding Azerbaijani districts, and hundreds of thousands of Azerbaijanis were displaced from their homes. Azerbaijani towns and villages were destroyed or abandoned, and Azerbaijani civilians were killed. Khojaly became the most powerful symbol of Azerbaijani suffering, with civilians killed during the fighting in and around the town in February 1992. The precise circumstances and competing accounts surrounding the killings remain fiercely contested, but there is no serious reason to deny the reality of Azerbaijani civilian suffering. Nor should the mass displacement of Azerbaijanis be treated as a footnote simply because the political narrative of the conflict has subsequently shifted. A credible account of the history must acknowledge that Armenian forces committed serious abuses and that Azerbaijanis experienced displacement and destruction on a massive scale.
Yet recognising those facts does not erase what came before them, nor does it transform later Azerbaijani conduct into something beyond scrutiny. The ceasefire of 1994 froze rather than resolved the conflict. For almost three decades, Artsakh remained predominantly Armenian while internationally recognised as part of Azerbaijan, producing an unresolved political reality in which neither side accepted the other's understanding of sovereignty, security or historical legitimacy. Armenians viewed Artsakh as a homeland whose population had sought self-determination after decades of discrimination and insecurity; Azerbaijan regarded it as occupied territory that had been unlawfully removed from its sovereign control. Both narratives became deeply embedded in national politics, education and collective memory. The result was not merely a territorial dispute but two incompatible historical imaginations, each convinced that the other side's version of events threatened its own existence.
The balance changed dramatically in 2020. Azerbaijan, with significant Turkish political and military support, retook large areas that had been under Armenian control since the First Artsakh War. For Azerbaijan, the victory represented the restoration of territorial integrity. For Armenians, it marked the beginning of an entirely new and far more vulnerable phase. One of the most serious questions emerging from the war concerned the treatment of Armenian prisoners. Human Rights Watch interviewed former Armenian prisoners of war, reviewed medical documentation and examined more than twenty videos, documenting prolonged beatings and other forms of abuse, including electric shocks, burns, deprivation and humiliating treatment. HRW concluded that some of the treatment amounted to torture and called for investigations into possible war crimes. Other footage showed Armenian prisoners being slapped, kicked and forced into humiliating statements, including declarations concerning Artsakh and Azerbaijan. These findings are important because they go beyond wartime allegations from either government: an independent human-rights organisation examined testimony, medical evidence and visual material and reached its own conclusions.
There were also more specific allegations that deserve to be reported carefully. Asbarez reported claims from an attorney representing Armenian captives that prisoners had their cross tattoos burned from their bodies and were forced to read the Quran. Those particular claims should remain identified as allegations rather than being presented as independently adjudicated facts. But they appeared within a much broader record of documented mistreatment. Nor was the issue entirely new. In Saribekyan and Balyan v. Azerbaijan, the European Court of Human Rights examined the death of Armenian citizen Manvel Saribekyan while in Azerbaijani detention. The Court found serious violations concerning his death and the investigation into it, and concluded that the physical violence inflicted upon him amounted to torture. In 2022, Human Rights Watch also examined video footage that appeared to show Azerbaijani forces executing Armenian prisoners and described the apparent executions as a war crime. Taken together, these cases make it difficult to dismiss concerns about Armenian detainees as simply another product of wartime propaganda.
The treatment of Armenian cultural heritage raises a different but related question: what happens to the physical evidence of a people once that people has been removed from a territory? Armenian churches, monasteries, cemeteries, khachkars and inscriptions are not simply religious or architectural objects. They form part of the historical record of Armenian life across the South Caucasus. The destruction of the Armenian cemetery at Julfa in Nakhchivan remains one of the most notorious examples of cultural destruction, with satellite imagery and independent documentation providing evidence of the disappearance of thousands of Armenian grave monuments and khachkars. International and European institutions have repeatedly expressed concern about the protection of Armenian heritage in Azerbaijan, while the Caucasus Heritage Watch has documented damage and changes affecting Armenian cultural sites in territories that came under Azerbaijani control after the 2020 war. Not every instance of damage can automatically be attributed to the Azerbaijani government, and claims about individual sites must be assessed individually. The broader principle, however, is straightforward: when a state acquires control over territory containing the cultural heritage of another people, it assumes a responsibility to protect that heritage rather than allow its Armenian identity to disappear.
This became even more consequential after the events of 2022 and 2023. The blockade of the Lachin Corridor left Artsakh's Armenian population increasingly isolated, while shortages of food, medicine and other essentials intensified. In September 2023, Azerbaijan launched a military offensive against Artsakh. Within a matter of days, more than 100,000 Armenians fled. Whatever terminology governments use to describe the territory's political status, the demographic reality is unmistakable: the overwhelmingly Armenian population of Artsakh was effectively removed from the territory in which it had lived for generations. For Armenians, this was therefore not simply the loss of a military position or a change in territorial administration. It was the loss of a homeland and the disappearance of an entire political and communal existence. A peace process that treats this only as the conclusion of a territorial dispute risks overlooking the human reality of what occurred.
The detention and prosecution of former Artsakh officials has added another layer to this unresolved question. Azerbaijan has detained and prosecuted a number of former Artsakh political and military figures, maintaining that they are responsible for serious crimes and are being tried according to Azerbaijani law. Armenian authorities and Armenian organisations have raised serious concerns about the proceedings and the treatment of detainees. The appropriate response is neither to automatically accept every Azerbaijani accusation nor to assume that every Armenian official is innocent simply because he is Armenian. The cases should be subject to transparent proceedings, meaningful legal safeguards and credible international scrutiny. If Azerbaijan wants the world to accept its argument that the conflict has ended and a new era of peace has begun, the treatment of these detainees is one of the clearest places where that claim can be tested.
The regional balance in which all of this is occurring cannot be separated from Azerbaijan's increasingly close relationship with Turkey. The two states have long described themselves as exceptionally close, but their relationship was elevated into a formal alliance through the 2021 Shusha Declaration. The agreement describes the relationship in terms of “one nation, two states” and commits both countries to extensive political, security and defence cooperation. Turkey's support for Azerbaijan during the 2020 war was an important part of the transformation in the military balance, while subsequent cooperation has included transport, security and regional connectivity. There is nothing inherently illegitimate about two neighbouring states maintaining a close alliance, but the consequences for Armenia are obvious. Armenia is negotiating with a victorious Azerbaijan that enjoys a powerful relationship with Turkey, while Turkey itself has historically kept its border with Armenia closed in solidarity with Baku. The regional order that has emerged since 2020 is therefore considerably less favourable to Armenia than the one that existed during the decades of frozen conflict.
This imbalance is particularly important when considering the current language of peace. Azerbaijan has increasingly positioned itself as the state that restored territorial integrity and is now prepared to move toward normalisation. Armenia, meanwhile, has had to negotiate from the position of the defeated party. The United States has become increasingly involved in the diplomatic process, with discussions encompassing a final peace agreement, border delimitation, regional connectivity and the proposed Trump Route for International Peace and Prosperity. Baku has nevertheless continued to press Armenia on constitutional questions, arguing that provisions relating to Artsakh must be changed before the peace process can be considered fully settled. This is not the same as saying that Azerbaijan is simply demanding more territory, a claim that would require more specific evidence. It is more accurate to say that Baku has used its negotiating position to press Armenia for political and constitutional concessions alongside its demands concerning the post-war regional order.
That distinction matters because the language of reconciliation can obscure the unequal circumstances in which reconciliation is being negotiated. Azerbaijan has won the war, controls Artsakh and the surrounding territories, and has substantially greater military leverage than Armenia. Armenia is being asked to accept a new regional reality while the Armenian population that once constituted the overwhelming majority of Artsakh is no longer there. A peace agreement can establish borders, diplomatic relations and economic arrangements, but it cannot by itself resolve the fate of displaced people, restore destroyed cultural heritage or answer allegations concerning prisoners. Nor can it make historical memory disappear. If anything, the stronger party in a post-war settlement has a greater responsibility to demonstrate that its victory will not become a licence for historical erasure.
This is ultimately where the politics of memory becomes so important. Azerbaijan has a legitimate historical memory of its own. It remembers Azerbaijani civilians killed during the First Artsakh War, the displacement of hundreds of thousands of people, the destruction of Azerbaijani communities and the continuing danger posed by landmines. Those experiences should not be minimised simply because the present article focuses on Armenian suffering. But the existence of Azerbaijani victims does not make Armenian victims irrelevant, just as Armenian victims do not make Azerbaijani suffering illegitimate. The point is not to construct a hierarchy of victimhood. It is to reject the idea that one people's suffering can be used to make another people's history disappear.
That is why Azerbaijan's presentation of reconciliation deserves scrutiny. A state can simultaneously promote peace and preserve a highly selective account of the past. It can speak about regional cooperation while insisting that its own historical interpretation is the only legitimate one. It can prosecute former Armenian officials while describing itself as a defender of international law. It can demand that Armenians accept the political reality created by military victory while the Armenian population that once inhabited Artsakh has been displaced almost in its entirety. None of these contradictions necessarily makes peace impossible, but they do make the word “reconciliation” more demanding than a diplomatic ceremony.
Genuine reconciliation would require Azerbaijan to acknowledge Azerbaijani suffering without demanding that Armenians surrender their own historical memory. It would require credible investigation of allegations concerning Armenian prisoners and unlawful killings, protection of Armenian churches and cultural sites, transparent legal proceedings for detainees, and serious international scrutiny of heritage preservation. It would also require Armenia to confront crimes committed against Azerbaijanis and to acknowledge the devastation and displacement experienced by Azerbaijani civilians during the First Artsakh War. None of this requires either side to abandon its historical identity. It requires both sides to recognise that historical truth cannot belong exclusively to the victor.
The danger is that peace becomes synonymous with silence. Once borders are internationally accepted and trade routes begin operating, there may be considerable pressure to treat the past as an inconvenient subject that should be left behind. But people do not forget simply because governments sign agreements. The Armenians who fled Artsakh have not forgotten their homes. The families of Azerbaijani civilians killed or displaced during the First Artsakh War have not forgotten theirs. The descendants of Armenians expelled from Baku and Sumgait have not forgotten either. Nor should they be expected to.
Azerbaijan may have won the war. It has not therefore won the right to determine which memories survive.
If peace is to last, it will have to be built on something more substantial than the disappearance of the losing side's historical narrative. Armenians and Azerbaijanis may eventually become neighbours who trade, travel and live without fear, and there is every reason to hope that they do. But normalisation between governments is not the same thing as reconciliation between peoples. Reconciliation requires an honest encounter with the past, including the parts that are politically uncomfortable.
The dead do not become less dead because diplomats move forward. The displaced do not become less displaced because borders change. Cultural heritage does not become less Armenian because a new government exercises sovereignty over the land on which it stands.
Peace can settle borders.
It cannot, by itself, settle memory.
And if reconciliation is ever to mean anything in the South Caucasus, it must include the right of both peoples to remember what happened to them: the Azerbaijani civilians who were killed and displaced, and the Armenians of Artsakh whose homeland, community and presence were ultimately swept away by war.
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