The puzzle of revenge When symbols speak louder than words

Raising a citizen is not just about history lessons and singing the national anthem. Above all, it is about shaping a worldview through the images, symbols, and contexts that surround a person from early childhood. In a world where war can begin not with a gunshot, but with an idea, it is especially important to monitor what meanings are instilled in the generation that will make decisions in the future. This is particularly relevant for post-conflict societies, where the value of a symbol can outweigh the value of a word. But why are we saying this? Let’s get to the point.

Armenia, which does not hide its grief over the so-called "losses"—which in reality have become a triumph of justice for the Azerbaijani people—is increasingly drawing attention for precisely this reason. Officially proclaiming a course toward peace and good neighbourliness, Yerevan continues to send signals that are difficult to interpret as anything other than a consistent rooting of revanchist sentiments. And this is done not through loud statements, but through rituals, school events, and “accidental” details—the very elements that have a far deeper impact on a person than dry rhetoric.

One such episode was recorded at a recent school event in Armenia. In a video that circulated online, schoolchildren can be seen assembling a large puzzle symbolising the country’s territory. The scene ends with a girl carrying a piece of the puzzle in her arms. By its shape, the fragment is easily recognised as the map of Karabakh — a historic Azerbaijani territory. The girl holds the piece close to her chest and walks away with it, as if it is an inseparable part that must be saved, preserved, and returned.

This moment could be dismissed as a coincidence if it existed in isolation. But it takes place against the backdrop of a systemic policy, under which Armenian children from an early age are instilled with notions of the “miatsum,” “lost land,” “historical justice,” and the necessity of “struggle.” Militarised camps for children, school events featuring maps that include the Karabakh region of Azerbaijan as part of Armenia, patriotism lessons where border revision is seen as a mission — all these elements shape a clear worldview in young minds, where war is not a tragedy but a tool for restoring “truth.”

What is especially alarming is that such messages do not come from marginal circles but are often institutionalised. The question is not only whether the puzzle piece was deliberately cut in the shape of Karabakh. The question is that this particular shape was used and emotionally emphasised. This is exactly what education through symbols looks like.

As long as Armenia continues to romanticise its losses and project them into school halls and celebrations, statements by Armenian authorities about a “new era of peace” appear increasingly declarative. Peace is impossible without recognising the new reality. And as long as the Armenian schoolchild holds not a textbook of peace, but a fragment of foreign territory, in reality this is not peace — but a ceasefire with a postponed conflict.

I want to ask a direct question to the Prime Minister of Armenia: what about the recognition of Azerbaijan’s territorial integrity? Or are these statements made merely for show and to appease the international community?

For this very reason, Azerbaijan does not believe in empty assurances — it demands concrete steps, including amendments to the Armenian Constitution, which still officially enshrines territorial claims on Azerbaijani lands. Without this, peace remains nothing more than rhetoric — while the map of the “lost” continues to live on in the minds of Armenian society.