Rewriting History: Issues, Power, and Manipulation. Azerbaijan’s Commemoration of March 31

Alain Navarra-Navassartian, Ph.D. in Sociology.

March 31 and Azerbaijan’s Rewriting of History

This Azerbaijani Genocide Day (azerbaycan soyqırımı günü) was established on March 26, 1998, on the 80th anniversary of the “March Days,” which refer to the interethnic clashes that took place between March 30 and April 2, 1918. These clashes have been framed as a “genocide” committed by Armenians and Russians. History is a tool of power in the present; states mobilize historical narratives to legitimize past—and even future—actions, strengthen their internal cohesion, or justify latent conflict with a neighbor. In the case of Azerbaijan’s narrative regarding the alleged genocide committed by the Armenians, we will not undertake the work of a historian by pointing out either the errors or the interpretations surrounding these events, but we will focus on the rewriting of history as an instrument of geopolitical power dynamics.

The present’s reappropriation of past events does not constitute history in the strict sense, but rather refers to the social uses of the past. It is not only historical facts that deserve attention, but also the shifts in their interpretations, the conflicts they provoke, and the social groups that have an interest in imposing their version of the past. From this perspective, history appears less as a simple narrative of the past than as a social construct, shaped by situated actors engaged in struggles over the legitimate definition of memory and history.

We are therefore dealing with producers of history, whose positions, interests, and strategies must be analyzed. The ongoing reinterpretation of past events by the present shows that the real issue lies in the power to tell history—that is, in the ability of certain actors to impose a legitimate reading of the past.

We have repeatedly emphasized how performative speech acts serve as tools for identity construction, with anti-Armenian sentiment being the dominant feature. These acts of speech and the resulting statements are not insignificant, first because of their violence, and second because of their reference to a system of conventions, rituals, and a strategy that intertwines historical references, political discourse, the symbolism of epic narratives (the cult of the hero), and the most vindictive form of nationalism. Emphasis is placed on the distinction between Armenians and Azerbaijanis—which existed long before the conflict—based on cultural attributes, language, religion, and the support received from the Russians. These are thus primordialist theses that highlight age-old hatreds. These theses rely on “historical figures” who have been fighting the Armenian enemy since time immemorial, in order to restore the “purity” of the territory.

It would therefore be surprising if the Azerbaijani government were to actually accept a request for recognition—whether regarding rights, identity, or culture—made by Armenia. Struggles over intersubjective norms of recognition are not limited to open confrontations; they take the form of negotiations and compromises, but also of enduring tensions and unresolved conflicts within the realm of mutual recognition and cooperation. Agreement between two parties does not necessarily rest on complete alignment, but on the possibility of a compromise deemed acceptable. In this sense, the notion of “reasonable disagreement” developed by John Rawls refers to a social—if not moral—disposition that leads individuals to engage in relationships based on tolerance, reciprocity, and a principle of fairness, making cooperation possible despite the persistence of disagreements. In the event of a defeat (the interpretation of a military defeat in a “redemptive” war, presented as a catalyst for rebirth, is a fallacious argument), there is an asymmetry in the power but also in the influence of the two countries, and Azerbaijan’s skill in communication is no longer to be demonstrated. March 31 is therefore an opportunity for the country’s government to put forward revisionist claims without the slightest qualms.

The vocabulary used in various official and media texts employs a similar lexicon: massacres, colonization, refugees, displaced persons, Russian tsarist protection, blood-soaked corpses, executioners. A lexicon inherent to the Armenian genocide: so rather than offering a counter-narrative to downplay the tragic events that befell this people—who, according to this discourse, have since benefited from (and allegedly abused) international solidarity (while the tragedies in the history of the Tatars and Azerbaijanis are forgotten)—a mirrored discourse is produced, a fiction of symmetry between two historical schools. This is not a matter of historical truth but of a clash between two discourses, with the Armenian discourse being automatically dismissed. It should be emphasized that the remarks made by the Armenian Prime Minister during his speeches in Paris and Zurich contribute to creating a form of ambiguity that helps to perpetuate doubt regarding the full understanding of the historical and contemporary meanings of the Armenian Genocide, as well as its current political and memorial implications. It is evident that such statements can only fuel the competition between narratives.

It is thus a litany of historical injustices suffered by Azerbaijan, with a cynical insistence on redress for these injustices. This is not to say that Azerbaijani culture is violent by nature, but that aspects of the culture are used to justify certain acts and the violent anti-Armenian sentiment underlying these statements and texts. We observe the formation of a lexicon that functions as a set of established formulas—that is, as words that guide and frame a certain way of conceptualizing crimes against humanity. These terms, often used in contrast to the Armenian genocide, undergo shifts in meaning and changes in register of usage. Concepts such as “genocide” or “crimes against humanity” may thus function less as strict legal or historical categories than as words of accusation, moral or political invectives.

The hardening of Azerbaijani memory discourse comes at a time of global crisis and conflict with Iran. The war has reignited the complex interplay of historical, identity-based, and geopolitical rivalries between Azerbaijan and Iran, which is rooted in competing historical narratives. Azerbaijan tends to promote a national narrative centered on the historical continuity of a unified people, extending even beyond its current borders. The instrumentalization of the past is a transnational issue; for Azerbaijan, the dimension of memory is more than ever a tool for political legitimization and a space for symbolic rivalry, at the intersection of identity, territorial, and geopolitical issues in the South Caucasus and the Middle East. Meanwhile, in Armenia, the ideology of “Real Armenia” imposes an absence of the past—not its disappearance, but the erasure of its social visibility—by selecting what should be remembered, valued, or, conversely, forgotten. This is not a void but an organized silence…

The Azerbaijani government, on the other hand, is rewriting history and dictating how it should be interpreted, thereby shedding light on the fate of the Armenians of Artsakh. These are signs of authority that are less concerned with revealing the “truth” than with ensuring the veracity of the narrative: lending an air of truth to the narrative used for this commemoration is what gives it persuasive power.

History, a Strategic Tool?

The communication strategies implemented by Azerbaijan since the 44-day war use history as a strategic tool. Backed by Turkey, the country’s government has often pointed to the “excessive remembrance” of the Armenian diaspora as a source of conflict between the two countries, supported by the policy of “forgetting” advocated by the Armenian government, but more curiously by certain diaspora actors. There is a limit to contemporary discourses that value either “excessive remembrance” or the “right to forget.” It is understandable that the heirs of traumatic events are caught in a tension between the guilt of forgetting and the need to adapt to new political and geopolitical configurations. Forgetting can then appear as a political resource.

The politics of forgetting promoted by certain Armenian state and diaspora actors is mirrored in the processes of selecting, reinterpreting, and transforming the past carried out by the Azerbaijani state. In both cases, it is not a matter of the past being absent, but rather of political work being done on the past. Forgetting is not a natural void: it is socially and politically produced.

Thus, the “forgetting” invoked by certain actors in Armenia or the diaspora does not simply create silence; it produces a narrative void, which is itself the result of a policy and which contributes to shaping politics by redefining the boundaries of what can be said and thought. In this context, forgetting can be used to facilitate compromise, normalization, or diplomacy, while other actors may favor more confrontational policies of historical reaffirmation.

The issue, therefore, is not simply one of memory versus forgetting, but rather an understanding of the different political uses of the past, whether in Armenia or Azerbaijan. From this perspective, memory and forgetting appear less as moral stances than as tools embedded in political, diplomatic, and identity-based strategies. The aim is to shift the question of the truth of the past toward: who speaks of the past, for what purpose, and within what power dynamics? And this applies to both countries. The relative erasure of the past has accompanied regional and political realignments in both Armenia and Azerbaijan, without, however, leading to a critical re-examination of history that might have highlighted the collective rights to memory, identity, and survival of the Armenian people of Artsakh. In this context, the “goodwill” displayed by Armenia can be interpreted as an attempt at appeasement rooted in diplomatic logic. However, this stance has had a limited effect on the conflict between the two states. It may even be perceived as having contributed to a symbolic imbalance, where silence and the setting aside of the past have found no equivalent on the Azerbaijani side. Consequently, peace may appear not as a shared objective, but as a discursive framework mobilized at the cost of repressing issues of memory, among other things.

It is quite striking to note that the term “trauma” recurs frequently in the texts and discourse surrounding this commemoration of March 31: a psychological wound that cannot be healed despite the passage of time. The “crimes” committed by the Armenians cannot be easily erased. This is not the best way to put an end to hatred and its eternal nature, to borrow Plutarch’s idea. On the Armenian side, “just memory” and “fair memory” come into tension, without the underlying issues being analyzed: a memory that is deeply morally committed can lose nuance, while a memory that is too “balanced” may seem insufficiently attentive to the injustices suffered. But once again, it is the Armenians who are being asked, in the name of a progressive project that simplifies historical reality and seeks to ignore these gray areas, to accept the regime of loss without making too much of a fuss. Yet forgetting, in this case, is nothing more than a sign of powerlessness.

Memory is linked to the concept of justice; there is an ethical imperative that goes hand in hand with it. We would therefore have to forget an exodus, war crimes, or unjust trials of Armenian prisoners. This is not a pathological relationship with memory, but rather an observation of how memory is being brought into line. Is it therefore the government—whether Azerbaijani or Armenian—that decides what must absolutely be healed or not, forgotten or not, transformed or not, falsified or not? A one-sided memory, that of the strongest, constructed not to unite but to subjugate?