The headlines scream of an urgent breaking report, but what truly commands attention is the lamentable spectacle of Armenian democracy. A nation votes under the shadow of the Kremlin’s displeasure, while its pro-Western government seeks solace in a tentative defence partnership with Britain. It is a tableau that would have been familiar to the client states of the Cold War, a geopolitical game of thrones played with the lives of millions.
Let us dispense with the usual pieties about self-determination. Armenia, like many nations on the periphery of empires, has never truly been free. It has oscillated between Russian hegemony and desperate flirtations with the West, each overture met with a predictable response from Moscow: a tightening of the screws. The current crisis is but the latest iteration of this cycle. Prime Minister Pashinyan’s government, elected on a wave of democratic hope in 2018, now finds itself trapped between a rock and a hard place. The rock is a resurgent Russia, nursing its own imperial grievances; the hard place is the mirage of Western salvation.
Britain’s offer of a defence partnership is presented as a noble gesture, a hand extended across the abyss. But let us be clear: the United Kingdom is not the empire of old. Its naval power has diminished, its global reach constrained by austerity and the whims of domestic politics. A few defence attachés and promises of joint exercises do not a security guarantee make. This is a symbolic move, a geopolitical gesture designed to irritate the Kremlin without any real commitment. It is a policy of pinpricks, not a bulwark.
The real issue is the intellectual and moral decadence of Western foreign policy. We have lost the capacity for grand strategy, for thinking in terms of centuries rather than electoral cycles. Instead, we offer these petits soins to nations like Armenia, knowing full well that we cannot and will not defend them if Russia decides to escalate. It is a dishonourable game, one that feeds on the hopes of small nations.
What Pashinyan needs is not a British pat on the back but a clear-eyed understanding of his position. He is a leader of a small, landlocked country in the Caucasus, surrounded by hostile or indifferent neighbours. His Russian overlords are bullies, but they are also his primary trading partner and security guarantor. The West offers fine words and occasional weapon shipments. Faced with this choice, any rational actor would seek a modus vivendi with Moscow. Yet Pashinyan persists, driven perhaps by genuine conviction or merely by the trap of domestic politics.
There is a historical parallel here with the tragic fate of the Czechs in 1938. Then, as now, a small democratic nation looked to the West for protection against a revanchist power. Then, as now, the West offered promises but no substance. The outcome was dismemberment and war. Armenia is not Czechoslovakia, and Russia is not Nazi Germany, but the dynamics of power remain chillingly similar. Small nations that find themselves between great powers are always at risk of being crushed.
What, then, is the prudent course? It is to recognise that geopolitics is a game of interests, not sentiments. Armenia should seek a neutral status, akin to Finland during the Cold War: friendly with the West but deferential to Russian concerns. This requires a realism that seems absent from the current government. Instead, they double down on a pro-Western orientation, hoping that Britain’s attenuated lion will roar loud enough to scare the bear.
The tragedy of Armenia is that it is a nation with a rich history and a resilient culture, but geography has dealt it a cruel hand. It can either adapt to the realities of power or continue to suffer the consequences of idealism. In this, it shares the fate of many nations that dare to dream of escaping their gravitational pulls. The lesson, as always, is that history has not ended. It never does.
