By Wally Sarkeesian
In every nation’s history, there comes a moment when the people must ask whether their leaders serve the nation or serve themselves. For Armenians, that question has grown sharper in recent years as painful events unfolded around Artsakh, Syunik, and the broader struggle for sovereignty. Many now fear that instead of protecting the homeland, the political leadership has chosen the easier path of compromise, cooperation with adversaries, and suppression of the very citizens who once defended the nation’s dignity.
At the heart of the frustration lies a sense of betrayal. Armenia’s leadership once claimed it lacked the mandate to negotiate over Artsakh, insisting that the people’s will could not be bargained away. Yet after the disastrous war of 2020, that very stance collapsed. Negotiations shifted toward territorial concessions, and the narrative turned from safeguarding Armenian rights to managing surrender in the name of “peace.”
But peace has not followed. Instead, Armenians have seen the erosion of national security, the hollowing out of political accountability, and a campaign of pressure against some of the country’s most successful business figures—men and women who, in years past, devoted resources to Artsakh’s survival. Rather than being celebrated as patriots, they became scapegoats in a new political order where loyalty to the ruling elite seemed more important than loyalty to the nation.
Meanwhile, the adversary across the border boasts of military might and spreads Armenophobic rhetoric unchecked. Armenia’s silence in the face of such hostility feels less like diplomacy and more like acquiescence. When leaders speak of “historic opportunities for peace,” many Armenians hear only the echo of past betrayals: the November 2020 capitulation, the quiet surrender of borderlands, and now the chilling prospect of deeper concessions in Syunik.
The spectacle is bitter. While political leaders stand smiling beside their counterparts, Armenians see their own people—entrepreneurs, community builders, defenders of Artsakh—treated as expendable. The image is not one of peace, but of conspiracy: two powerful hands raised together, while ordinary Armenians and patriots are left behind bars, both figuratively and literally.
What is at stake is larger than the fate of any single leader or oligarch. It is the question of national dignity. Can Armenia survive when its most capable voices are silenced? Can Artsakh’s legacy endure when the defenders of its cause are punished, not honored? Can peace be trusted when built on secrecy, silence, and the imprisonment of those who stood for Armenian survival?
History is unforgiving. Those who trade sovereignty for short-term security often discover that they lose both. If today Armenia appears weaker, more fractured, and more vulnerable, it is not because of the Armenian people, but because of the choices of a political elite that mistook submission for strategy.
For many Armenians, the dream remains the same: a free, secure homeland where leaders defend rather than betray, where businessmen who supported Artsakh are recognized rather than persecuted, and where peace is built on dignity rather than capitulation. Until then, the silence of the powerful will only deepen the anger of the people—and the shadow of betrayal will haunt Armenia’s future.