Political communication, Artsakh and Populism: The Staging of Political Discourse

Alain Navarra-Navassartian, PhD in Sociology

Pashinyan, the Armenian prime minister, is campaigning for reelection on social media.

The portrayal of leaders now occupies a central place in the public sphere. Audiovisual media and social networks play a major role in this staging, mobilizing emotional registers that appeal to collective emotions as much as individual perceptions. In this context, political leaders seek less to convince through policy platforms than to forge an emotional connection with their audiences.

The case of Nikol Pashinyan illustrates this shift. His messaging around “New Armenia” is not merely a political slogan: it constitutes a way of defining a worldview, organizing reality, and identifying what is presented as an obstacle to this transformation. This type of discourse helps structure symbolic oppositions between change and its opponents, between the national project and those perceived as hindering it.

From this perspective, one can argue that every political party, when addressing voters, mobilizes to varying degrees mechanisms that can be described as populist. Without delving here into the theoretical controversies surrounding populism, it can be understood as a communicative phenomenon: it relies both on specific content—the elevation of the people, criticism of elites, and the identification of adversaries—and on discursive and visual styles that simplify conflicts and foster identification.

The issue is therefore not merely whether Nikol Pashinyan is developing a populist ideology in the strict sense, but rather to analyze the connections between his forms of communication, his mobilization strategies, and a logic of power. The Armenian case shows that populism often manifests itself more in the form of messages, in the emotional register, and in the staging of leadership than in adherence to a clearly defined doctrine.

This dynamic also fits into a context of tightening control. The use of highly personalized and emotional communication is accompanied by a reduction in the space granted to divergent views, whether in the media or in public debate. Thus, political communication is not limited to conveying a government’s orientation: it also helps redefine the boundaries of legitimate discourse in society.

The proliferation of digital platforms has profoundly transformed political communication by providing direct access to leaders’ statements. In this regard, Nikol Pashinian’s official account serves as a valuable case study for analyzing how political content is produced, disseminated, and reinterpreted. Social media offers a unique platform, as it allows leaders to bypass traditional media and address citizens directly, without editorial mediation.

This form of communication is characterized by the rapid circulation of messages and the

possibility of immediate interaction. Posts elicit comments, support, but also criticism, particularly when the leader’s portrayal in ordinary situations—for example, eating on a bus with his political entourage—contrasts with the expected image of the office. These scenes, sometimes perceived as awkward, nevertheless have nonetheless have an impact: they encourage supporters to adopt aggressive tones themselves or to use arguments drawn from the populist playbook.

This strategy relies on blurring the lines between the public and private spheres. By showcasing scenes of intimacy or everyday life, Nikol Pashinyan tends to shift the figure of the political leader toward that of an influencer: close-ups of the face, affectionate gestures, humor, background music, or visual cues of complicity. These tactics are part of a now well-established form of political marketing, where personalization serves to strengthen identification with the leader, particularly during pre-election periods.

The sociological interest lies in understanding which social expectations this communication addresses. It relates as much to rational expectations—information, credibility, relatability—as to emotional expectations based on emotional attachment. It also raises the question of the “people” invoked in political discourse: which social or symbolic group are we referring to when the leader speaks of the Armenian people? This category, often invoked to foster unity, actually masks divisions and divergent positions.

Beyond style, this communication also serves a deeper political function. Staging a sense of

closeness with the public can serve to neutralize criticism or make illiberal policies—or even authoritarian practices—more acceptable when the public expresses resistance. Social media then becomes a space for symbolic confrontation: it serves to disseminate the official narrative, but also citizen counter-narratives—often ironic—that subvert this staging and challenge its codes, for example by mocking emotional symbols like the hearts featured in posts.

Finally, this communication is indicative of a specific political moment. In the context of Armenia’s rapprochement with the United States and the European Union, this strategy appears to be an adaptation to contemporary standards of Westernized political communication. The chosen style is therefore not merely a personal choice: it reflects an attempt at political repositioning, where the form of communication accompanies a new strategic orientation of the government.

But what are the actual effects of these messages on Armenian society? The question remains open, as available data remains limited: for now, the analysis relies primarily on online posts and reactions from social media users, while few studies have yet examined this form of political communication in Armenia in depth.

This communication offers a promise of renewal—that of a “new Armenia”—but how this promise is received by society remains uncertain. Any political promise creates collective expectations, but its reception depends on concrete social experiences, shared identities, and shared memories. The idea of renewal, sometimes presented in an almost messianic form, is not enough to erase the persistence of confrontational rhetoric. On the contrary, the exercise of power seems to have maintained, or even reinforced, certain conflictual dynamics, particularly with regard to the Armenian Apostolic Church or groups perceived as opponents.

It is also possible for political discourse to invoke the “people” without them actually being at its core. The category of “people” often functions as a symbolic resource, serving to legitimize political choices without necessarily reflecting the diversity of social expectations. Protests against certain government decisions demonstrate that communication cannot neutralize the dynamics inherent to political arena: partisan opposition, demands for representation, divergent social interests, collective

aspirations, or attachment to certain national myths.

This limitation is particularly evident in a society marked by recent historical trials. The experience of war, the loss of thousands of lives, military defeat, and the violation of collective dignity havelasting effects on social representations. These experiences cannot be addressed solely through one-off communication campaigns, even highly publicized ones. Symposia, ceremonies, award presentations, or symbolic events contribute to the construction of a political narrative, but they do not replace the social work of mourning, recognition, and the reconstruction of meaning.

From a sociological perspective, government communication cannot therefore be understood in isolation. It operates within a social space already marked by traumatic memories, political divisions, and conflicting expectations. While it may temporarily shape perceptions, it does not eliminate the social conflicts or collective experiences that have permanently shaped Armenian society.

What sentiment is this communication seeking to address? It appears, in part, to be an attempt to reframe the experience of defeat and collective loss. This sentiment, rarely named or analyzed directly in public debate, is often re-engraved within a narrative of “rebirth,” which offers a horizon of reconstruction but also tends to relegate to the background the loss of a territory like Artsakh and a significant part of the history of the Armenian people in that territory.

Behind sequences sometimes perceived as anecdotal or ridiculous, the communication actually carries deeply political content. It helps produce a form of alternative truth—that is, a narrative that seeks to redefine what should be retained, forgotten, or recharacterized in recent history. This symbolic work engages with political, cultural, and economic positions, as well as historical ones, by proposing new interpretations of the past and the present.

Thus, these are not simply images of daily life or ordinary scenes posted online. These gestures, even the most mundane, become socially significant signals. They resonate with certain social groups, who interpret them as a stance of breaking with old codes. This strategy helps to gradually shift the boundaries of what can be said: what might previously have seemed unthinkable or unacceptable gradually becomes open to discussion, particularly on sensitive issues such as the Armenian Genocide or Artsakh.

This shift also affects the realm of the possible. By altering what can be said publicly, those in power also influence what can be politically envisaged. The figure of the leader is thus constructed as that of an actor capable of breaking with the past and “making

history” rather than merely enduring it. This stance promotes a positive image of the subversive: not as a challenge to power, but as the leader’s ability to impose new symbolic and discursive norms.

In this context, the prime minister’s public staging is not merely a matter of gestures of outreach or personal communication. It is part of a symbolic power struggle, where the stakes lie in redefining social conventions—what is legitimate to say and, consequently, what becomes possible to do. Thistransformation is part of broader power dynamics, supported by international actors with strategicinterests in the region, but also by a segment of the Armenian diaspora, which is itself marked bypower relations, internal divisions, and strategies for gaining political influence.

The point here is not so much to dwell on Nikol Pashinian’s personal image as to analyze the symbolic capital he seeks to embody. The prime minister also functions as a kind of “political brand,” that is, as a set of images, values, and narratives designed to generate support and lend political significance to his actions. His communication relies not solely on his persona, but on this figure’s ability to associate his power with certain positive representations of change.

From this perspective, studying the reception of these messages appears essential. Understanding political communication requires, in fact, not limiting oneself to the production of discourses, but observing how they are perceived, accepted, contested, or appropriated by different social groups. This analysis remains difficult, however, in a context where the expression of divergent opinions seems increasingly constrained, particularly in certain media or digital spaces.

This also raises the question of the profile of the electorate in the 2026 Armenian parliamentary elections. What type of voter is this paper addressing? Is it a voter primarily guided by rational calculations, evaluating platforms and results, or a citizen more driven by emotions, immediate perceptions, and collective sentiments, as demonstrated by George E. Marcus’s work on the emotional dimension of voting?

In the Armenian context, certain categories such as “modernity,” “progress,” or “innovation

” tend to be appropriated by the government’s messaging. They become symbolic resources

associated with Nikol Pashinian’s agenda, while critical positions may be dismissed as

“nationalist,” “conservative,” or “reactionary.” This process contributes to polarizing the debate by pitting one camp—presented as forward-looking—against another—linked to a past deemed outdated.

The work of Richard Petrocik and Samuel Popkin has shown that voters often rely on a party’s reputation on certain issues to guide their vote. They use simplified benchmarks: trust, competence, and the ability to embody certain themes. The question, in the Armenian context, is therefore whether the June election will be based on this logic of political evaluation, or whether emotional, identity-based, and symbolic factors will carry more weight in voters’ choices.

Pashinyan’s latest statements on Artsakh: “Karabakh never belonged to us… In what way did these lands belong to us? In what way are they ours?….What made Karabakh ours? Did we build schools, kindergartens, and factories there? Did we live there? It was a place of life, but ultimately, what made this territory ours? …”

This article does not aim to claim strict axiological neutrality, especially since it is not part of a scientific publication. While the need for analytical distance remains important, it does not preclude making one’s point of view explicit, especially when analyzing events involving such sensitive historical, political, and memorial issues.

At HYESTART, positions are generally taken and clearly stated. As Alexis Krikorian points out, neutrality can sometimes become toxic when, under the guise of objectivity, it helps perpetuate power dynamics by presenting them as natural or indisputable. From this perspective, the absence of a stance is not always synonymous with critical distance; it can also obscure the real power dynamics at play.

In the social sciences, objectivity does not mean the absence of values. It relies more on the rigor of the approach, methodological honesty, and the transparency of assumptions. It is therefore possible to offer a situated analysis while maintaining a critical stance and making visible the conditions under which this analysis is produced.

It is in this spirit that Nikol Pashinian’s recent statements on Artsakh will be presented: not from a position of absolute neutrality, but with a commitment to analysis, by distancing oneself from immediate reactions to examine the political, symbolic, and social logics they reveal.

Sociologically, this statement is significant because it shifts the narrative framework. It no longerdiscusses merely borders or international law; it reframes national memory itself. By asking “what was ours?”, the government is not merely contesting a territory; it is questioning the legitimacy of the historical narrative shared by a large portion of Armenians and the diaspora.

This is why the reaction was so strong: the statement touches as much on geopolitics as on the collective definition of belonging. It publicly redefines what can be said about Artsakh, and thus what a society can still consider constitutive of its history. The Prime Minister’s official website published a message dated May 9, 2026, but the text is different: it focuses on the 1945 victory and peace with Azerbaijan; it does not contain that reference to Karabakh. The statement on Artsakh circulated primarily through the international press and Armenian media, as it marks a very clear shift in Nikol Pashinyan’s political discourse.

First, there is a break from the symbolic framework. Artsakh is not merely a territory: for many, it represents a place of memory, historical presence, sacrifice, and national continuity. To say publicly “it never belonged to us” amounts to shifting the boundaries of what can be said: what had previously been part of an implicit consensus suddenly becomes open to question. This type of statement acts as an act of symbolic power: it attempts to redefine legitimate truth.

Furthermore, this statement is part of a post-defeat narrative strategy. By asserting that this territory was not “ours,” the discourse reframes the loss: if something did not belong to us, then there was no loss in the political or moral sense. It is a way of reducing the traumatic burden of the 2020–2023 defeat by reframing it. Sociologically, this corresponds to an attempt to manage collective trauma through political language. But what of the 5,000 dead… a pointless sacrifice, then?

There is also the issue of reshaping the national narrative. The prime minister is not merely speaking of the past: he is constructing a new narrative for the future. His message aligns with his orientation toward the European Union and a lasting agreement with Azerbaijan. In this vein, he seeks to replace the memory of territorial claims with a narrative centered on the current state, its recognized borders, and regional normalization. But then why did he shout: “Artsakh is Armenia, period”?

What explains the intensity of the reactions is that this statement touches not only on geopolitics, but on the legitimacy of past suffering. For many, the issue is not merely legal (“internationally recognized or not”), but historical and lived: Armenian presence, institutions, churches, schools, war dead, forced displacement. By calling this affiliation into question, the government also seems to be downplaying the significance of these sacrifices.

Finally, in terms of political communication, this statement can be read as an act of deliberate misalignment: provoking to impose a new framework. A leader may use a deliberately shocking statement to force society to discuss the issue on the terms they set. Here, the debate shifts: we are no longer speaking solely of the political responsibility for the loss or the responsibility for the sacrifice of young men, but of the very definition of what Karabakh was. This changes the agenda of public debate.

The central issue is therefore not merely whether the statement is historically or legally defensible. The real stake is that it acts as an instrument for transforming collective meaning: it seeks to alter legitimate memory, the categories of debate, and, ultimately, what a society considers conceivable regarding its own past.

A statement like Nikol Pashinyan’s can have profound effects, because it comes after a collective experience marked by war, mourning, and loss. When a political authority publicly reframes the meaning of a territory like Artsakh, it does not merely alter diplomatic discourse: it directly touches upon the significance attributed to human sacrifices.

For families who have lost loved ones—often from working-class backgrounds, who historically pay a heavier toll in armed conflicts—the effect can be one of a symbolic devaluation of the sacrifice. If a territory is presented in hindsight as having

“never been ours,” the deaths of soldiers may appear, in the public consciousness, as a loss that has become devoid of clear political recognition. This can generate an additional sense of dispossession: not only the loss of lives, but the loss of the meaning attributed to those deaths.

Sociologically, this can reinforce a sense of class division. In many war contexts, the working classes provide more combatants, while the political elites subsequently control the narrative of war and peace. When this narrative changes abruptly, some may feel that their experience has been appropriated by those who did not bear the same social costs. This disconnect between lived sacrifice and the official narrative can fuel mistrust, anger, or withdrawal from institutions.

For the diaspora, the effect is different but just as powerful. A large part of the Armenian diaspora maintains a connection to Armenia through memory, symbolic commitments, family history, and material support. Artsakh has often been viewed as an emblematic space of national continuity.

When a leader redefines this territory as outside the scope of national history, it can provoke a sense of rupture with the Armenian political center.

This rupture can have several consequences:

• an emotional distancing from state institutions;

• a loss of trust in official statements;

• increased polarization between diaspora groups that support or oppose the government;

• a weakening of certain forms of economic or civic mobilization.

More broadly, this type of statement affects what sociologists call legitimate collective memory. In a society emerging from conflict, those in power often seek to impose an interpretation of the past that aligns with their current objectives. But when this interpretation contradicts the lived experience of many social groups, it can produce the opposite effect: not healing, but an intensification of trauma, because mourning is not only tied to the loss itself, but to the public acknowledgment of that loss.

In this sense, the statement can be perceived as a double act of violence: on the one hand, the war and its dead; on the other, the political redefinition of what those lives were lost for. It is this interplay between material loss and symbolic reinterpretation that explains why such declarations can have a lasting impact on a society and its diaspora.

A diplomatic or symbolic success—such as an international summit in Yerevan—does not

guarantee that a political message will be received positively. These registers are distinct. An institutional event may reinforce external legitimacy, but it does not automatically neutralize internal perceptions, especially when recent memory is marked by war and mourning. When a leader speaks in the context of collective trauma, communication is not merely a matter of image or style. It engages with already highly charged social emotions: grief, humiliation, anger, and a sense of injustice. In this context, certain staged moments—such as scenes of conviviality, meals, or informal closeness—may be interpreted by some members of the population as inappropriate, or even offensive, not in and of themselves, but in contrast to the lived experience of families who have lost loved ones. There is also a matter of political ritual: societies often expect their leaders to exercise a certain symbolic restraint following a major conflict. When this restraint appears to be lacking, criticism can go beyond political content to touch on the dignity of the office. The normalization of the leader—showing a leader eating, traveling, joking—can serve to rebuild an image of normality after the war, to say: life goes on, the state moves forward. But this logic has a

limit: if it appears to erase the weight of the dead or the gravity of the loss too quickly, it can

provoke rejection and outrage.