Armenia and the War — Background and Themes

A Voice of Personal Witness

Hacobian explicitly disclaims any mandate to speak for the Armenian nation, writing that he 'holds no authority and claims no right whatever to speak for the nation or any national or local organization.' This disclaimer is strategic: it allows him to adopt a tone of personal testimony while still advancing a collective cause. The narrative voice oscillates between measured historical argument and impassioned rebuttal, as when he addresses critics who have called Armenians a 'mercenary race.' He counters with demographic data—'seventy or eighty per cent. of the Armenians in Turkish as well as Russian Armenia are peasants, farmers and artisans'—and with a sarcastic edge: 'If you cannot give your money to a starving woman or child without massacring them morally... pray spare your money and let the Armenian die.' This shift from statistical appeal to bitter irony marks a key feature of the book's rhetorical range.

The Rhetoric of Moral Geography

Hacobian repeatedly draws a line between Western civilization and the Ottoman Empire, quoting the Allies' own note to President Wilson describing the Ottoman government as 'decidedly foreign to Western civilization.' He positions Britain and its allies as 'the practical arbiters of the destinies of Europe and the Near East,' invoking a moral responsibility that he insists must be met with full knowledge of Armenian suffering. The book's structure mirrors this argument: it moves from a preface by Viscount Bryce—a figure of British establishment authority—to Hacobian's own narrative, which blends historical background, wartime events, and direct appeals. The pacing is uneven, with long passages of contextual explanation punctuated by sudden, sharp attacks on detractors. This rhythm reflects the author's dual role as historian and polemicist, building a case that is as much about the conscience of the reader as about the facts on the ground.

Pace and the Pressure of the Present

The book's sense of urgency is embedded in its very syntax. Hacobian often uses short, declarative sentences to deliver accusations or facts: 'The assertion that the Armenians are a mercenary race is not true.' These stand in contrast to longer, periodic sentences that build legalistic arguments about treaties and obligations. The effect is a text that shifts between the deliberative pace of a diplomatic memorandum and the rapid-fire rhythm of a courtroom cross-examination. This variation in pace is not merely stylistic; it mirrors the author's attempt to hold two audiences simultaneously—the reasoned statesman and the emotionally engaged public. The excerpts show that Hacobian is as concerned with refuting specific calumnies as with outlining a political program, suggesting that the book's argumentative energy is directed as much at contemporary detractors as at future peacemakers.

Readers approaching Armenia and the War should attend to its layered address: it speaks to a British audience presumed sympathetic but in need of education, to a peace conference yet to convene, and to an imagined community of Armenians whose suffering is both the book's subject and its warrant. The work is best read as a primary document of wartime advocacy, its rhetorical strategies as revealing as its historical claims.

I came back to Hacobian’s Armenia and the War this evening, and the way he quietly folds personal memory into historical plea made me think of another book I once left half-open on a train—Captivity and Escape — Themes and Context. That one, too, holds the ache of a door closing elsewhere. Odd, how two voices from different wars can share the same hush.