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...

  (Armenia) One of my early acquaintances, who later became ass close friend, at the University of Moscow, when I was doing dissertation research in 1984-1985 and my oldest daughter, Echo, was living with me and attending School #77 on Mosfilm Ulitsa, was Zitta. We spent many an evening together at the various amenities that Moscow had to offer (limited in those days) while Echo babysat Zitta's daughter Yuliya, four years her junior and the age of my younger daughter Fawn. Echo's Russian skills matured quickly as a result of school and babysitting. And Zitta and I became close friends though we were in different departments, she in Philosophy and I in Linguistics.  A decade later, under a free Russia, Yuliya came to live with us in Salinas, California, and a few months later Zitta showed up.  I found her employment in the US, and she later took over a nursing home, and Fawn, who is disabled, moved in with her. During those years, Zitta's family moved from Yerevan to Mosco...

  I have been to Armenia only once, many decades ago, but Armenia has played an outsized role in my life. Erevan and Mount Arafat In the mid-1980s, Erevan, now spelled Yerevan, was a city of paradoxes and poetry. The capital of the Armenian SSR stood apart from European Russia in both tone and temperament, offering visitors a glimpse into a republic shaped by ancient heritage and Soviet modernity—and a city that glowed pink. Erevan’s signature glow came from Armenian tuff, a volcanic stone quarried from the surrounding highlands. Rich in iron and minerals, the stone oxidized to hues of rose and coral, giving the city its nickname: the “pink city.” Buildings blushed in the morning light and gleamed at dusk, their color a quiet rebellion against Soviet gray. On clear days, Mount Ararat loomed in the distance—tall, dark, and solemn. Though politically inaccessible across the Turkish border, it remained a spiritual and visual anchor. The contrast was striking: the radiant pink ...