MSI Press Blog

Lake Sevan, perched high in the Armenian highlands, is one of the largest freshwater alpine lakes in Eurasia. Its shimmering blue waters, framed by mountains and monasteries, have long been a source of spiritual and cultural sustenance. For Armenians, Sevan is more than a scenic retreat—it’s a place of gathering, gratitude, and ritual. Almost as soon as we arrived and checked into the hotel, our bus driver brought the sheep and vegetables from the market down to the beach. When we joined him, we witnessed the slaying of the sheep—not a casual act, but a traditional Armenian ritual known as matagh . It’s a gesture of thanksgiving, often performed after surviving hardship or in anticipation of a journey. The animal is slaughtered respectfully, with a prayer, and the meat is shared among families as a blessing. That did not sit well with me. Even though I was farm-raised and our animals served as both companions and food, the eating of “someone” I knew—or had just met—was unpleasant. ...

  We were 20 American professors of Russian on a Soviet bus, heading northeast from Yerevan toward Lake Sevan. The trip was supposed to be simple: two hours, one lake, and a KGB minder named Liliya to make sure we didn’t stray. But the road had its own ideas. About an hour in, we passed a sign for Charentsavan. The bus driver pulled over to the side of the road, turned to one of the professors with whom he had struck up a friendly rapport, and said, “Georgii, so mnoi.” Georgiy followed without hesitation, and the two disappeared into a nearby bazaar. Liliya’s reaction was immediate. “You must not follow,” she said, her voice tight. “This is a closed city.” Then, she ran after them, coat flaring, shoes kicking up dust from the road. We waited a moment. Then, as if on cue, we scattered. Into the market we went—curious, amused, and slightly rebellious. There were onions, bread, eggplant, and the quiet rhythm of a working-class town. No one stopped us. Back on the bus, the driver was t...