Genocide In Palestine: Is History Repeating Itself?

LONDON: It has now been more than two years since South Africa filed a case against Israel at the International Court of Justice, alleging that Israel’s conduct in Gaza during the current war against Hamas and the Palestinian people amounts to genocide. A furious Israel not only described South Africa’s action as “disgraceful” but also accused it of “abetting the modern heirs of the Nazis”. Nevertheless, South Africa’s case has been supported by 31 countries, as well as the African Union and the Non-Aligned Movement. 

Dominating the world stage, it is not surprising that Israel’s actions in Gaza have brought back memories and inevitably drawn comparisons with those of the Ottoman government against the Armenians, a Christian minority, during the First World War, widely recognised by historians as the first modern genocide. On 24 April 1915, Ottoman authorities began arresting Armenian intellectuals in Constantinople, and within months, Armenian communities across Anatolia were uprooted, deported, and destroyed. By the end of World War I, as many as 1.5 million Armenians were dead, and an ancient population had been largely erased from its homeland. 

More than a century later, comparisons between the Armenian Genocide and the plight of Palestinians have become increasingly common in academic writing, activist spaces, and public discourse. These comparisons are emotionally charged and politically contested. Supporters argue they reveal repeating patterns of mass violence and denial, while critics warn they risk oversimplification or manipulation of history. What, then, does a careful comparison reveal, and where does it break down? 

The Armenian Genocide unfolded under the cover of global war. The Ottoman Empire, facing territorial loss and internal dissent, accused its Armenian population of disloyalty and collaboration with Russia, an accusation that became the pretext for a coordinated campaign of deportation and destruction. Entire villages disappeared as Armenians were forcibly marched from their homes toward the Syrian desert. Men were often executed early, while women and children endured starvation, mass rape, and enslavement on their marches toward death. Foreign diplomats, missionaries, and journalists documented what many described at the time as an organised attempt to eliminate a people. 

What distinguishes the Armenian case in the eyes of most historians is intent. Archival evidence, survivor testimony, and demographic outcomes point to a state-directed effort to destroy Armenians as a group. This consensus later helped shape the legal definition of genocide itself. Raphael Lemkin, who coined the term in 1944, explicitly cited the Armenian case when arguing for international laws to prevent such crimes. Yet recognition did not bring closure. Successive Turkish governments denied that genocide occurred, reframing the deaths as a tragic and unintended consequence of war. For Armenians, denial became inseparable from the crime itself. 

Unlike the Armenian Genocide, the Palestinian experience is not a single, time-bound historical episode. It is a prolonged condition marked by displacement, military occupation, recurring wars, and profound asymmetries of power. The mass displacement of Palestinians began in 1948, when over 700,000 people were expelled or fled during the creation of the State of Israel, a rupture Palestinians call the Nakba, or catastrophe. Further displacement followed in 1967. Today, millions of Palestinians live under occupation, siege, or as refugees, while periodic military campaigns have produced high civilian casualties, particularly in Gaza. 

Whether this amounts to genocide is the subject of intense debate among legal scholars, historians, and human rights organisations. Some argue that Israeli policies, ranging from large-scale bombardment and siege to the destruction of infrastructure essential for civilian life, may indicate genocidal intent, especially when paired with dehumanising rhetoric by Israeli politicians such as Minister of National Security Itamar Ben-Gvir and Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich. Others contend that, however severe or unlawful these actions may be, they are aimed at territorial control or security objectives rather than the destruction of Palestinians as a people. This disagreement is not merely semantic. Under international law, genocide requires proof of intent to destroy a protected group, in whole or in part. In the Armenian case, that intent is widely considered established. In the Palestinian case, it is still being argued in courtrooms, reports, and the court of public opinion. 

Despite these differences, scholars who draw parallels point to recurring patterns that transcend individual cases. Firstly, displacement as a tool of destruction. In 1915, Armenians were removed from their homes under the guise of “relocation,” a bureaucratic euphemism that masked lethal outcomes. Palestinians, too, have experienced repeated waves of displacement, home demolitions, and restrictions on return. While the mechanisms differ, the effect, a population made permanently unstable, resonates across time. Secondly, the use of slow violence. The Armenian Genocide did not always involve immediate killing. Many died from starvation, disease, and exhaustion. Similarly, some analysts describe Palestinian suffering not as sudden extermination but as “genocide by attrition,” a gradual erosion of life through siege, deprivation, and recurring trauma. Thirdly, denial and narrative control. Denial has been central to both cases. Turkish state denial reframed genocide as a wartime tragedy. In the Palestinian context, accusations of genocide are often dismissed as political attacks or antisemitic smears, while Palestinian testimony is frequently challenged or marginalised. In both cases, victims argue that denial compounds harm by erasing their lived reality. 

There are, however, important differences. The Armenian Genocide resulted in near-total demographic destruction in large regions. Armenian life in much of Anatolia effectively ended. By contrast, the Palestinian population has grown over time, a fact often cited by those who reject the genocide label. Population growth, however, is not a definitive counterargument. Indigenous populations in the Americas survived numerically despite genocidal campaigns. Yet the distinction underscores a key point: genocide does not follow a single script. Some are swift and catastrophic, others are prolonged and fragmented. Another difference lies in historical closure. The Armenian Genocide is a completed historical event, allowing for retrospective analysis of intent and outcome. By comparison, Palestine is ongoing, and any labels applied midstream are necessarily provisional and politically explosive. 

One of the most striking features of contemporary debates is the visibility of Armenian voices in discussions about Palestine. For many Armenians, the parallels are not abstract. They recognise the language of “security” used to justify civilian suffering. They recognise the frustration of pleading for recognition while powerful states urge restraint or neutrality. Above all, they recognise denial not just as disagreement but as an extension of violence. This does not mean Armenians speak with one voice, nor that all endorse the genocide label in the Palestinian case. But history has given many a sharpened sensitivity to how mass violence begins, how it is rationalised, and how the world responds. 

The struggle over terminology is not merely rhetorical. Under international law, genocide carries specific obligations: prevention, prosecution, and intervention. To name something genocide is to demand action and to accuse powerful actors of the gravest crime known to humanity, which is why states resist the word and why victims insist upon it. At the same time, some scholars caution against diluting the term to the point where it loses analytical clarity. If every atrocity is genocide, they argue, the concept risks losing its legal force. Others respond that excessive caution has historically served perpetrators more than victims. 

The Armenian Genocide does not offer a template that can be mechanically applied to Palestine or, for that matter, to any other case. But it does offer a warning. It shows how dehumanisation precedes destruction, how bureaucratic language masks violence, how international hesitation enables catastrophe. Above all, it shows how denial can persist for generations, shaping geopolitics long after the killing stops. Comparisons, when made carefully, are not about equating suffering. They are about recognising patterns early enough to interrupt them. A century ago, the world largely watched as Armenians disappeared. The question raised by comparisons today is not whether history repeats itself exactly, but whether we recognise its echoes in time to respond differently. 

John Dobson is a former British diplomat, who also worked in UK Prime Minister John Major’s office between 1995 and 1998. He is currently a visiting fellow at the University of Plymouth.