to take a breath and look around. When I was in the seventh or eighth grade, I had visited Moscow, but it was a really short trip, and I didn't remember much of it. This time, however, for a young fellow from a small mountain town, Moscow's scale and atmosphere, its vast palatial underground metro, and its entirely different crowd were awe-inspiring. I didn't feel lost; instead, I was happy and proud. I spent the summer days walking around, absorbing the spirit of the capital.
My classes started in the fall. They turned out to be easier than I expected but not too exciting either. Perhaps the reason was that a fascinating and well-educated person, a walking encyclopedia – Kim Grigorian, my brother-in-law – came into my life. I had never met a man of such erudition before, and I haven't, perhaps, ever since then. Kim was also from Stepanakert. He had graduated from Moscow's Textile Institute and headed аn engineering design bureau at some large factory. I stayed at a dorm in Lefortovo but spent all my weekends at my sister and Kim's tiny apartment in Reutov. My informal education began there.
We spent evenings in the kitchen. Kim talked about unusual things. I grew up in a family where the fairness and effectiveness of the Soviet system were never questioned. As an ordinary Soviet boy, the son of a communist, I believed that I lived in the best country in the world. But now, day after day, evening after evening, Kim showed me the reality. I learned about Stalin's repressions and the millions of people who died of starvation during the collectivization. I learned about Red commanders arrested right before World War II and Stalin's secret pact with Hitler to divide Europe.
Kim wasn't an active dissident; he was just a clear thinker who relentlessly criticized the system. Few in the Soviet Union back then understood the horrific realities of Stalin's regime or how stagnant Brezhnev's rule was. Kim found a grateful listener in me and unleashed all these truths upon me. Toward the middle of the night, tired of our long discussions, we listened to jammed Radio Liberty programs or to jazz.
Kim introduced me to a range of literature on politics, philosophy, and theology. These were not samizdat publications, yet their content had a profound impact on reshaping my mindset.
We began with Baruch Spinoza's Theologico-Political Treatise. I had never read anything like it before. It was a very tough but insanely exciting read. The world opened up to me in a different way. I came to believe that only through a social contract, accepted voluntarily and based on reason, could an individual's passions and flaws be reined in. These ideas had little in common with Soviet realities, but I didn't try to tie them together at the time – I was simply absorbing them. Although it is possible that, decades later, when I became president of post-Soviet Armenia, this 17th-century book that I read at the age of 17 subliminally impacted many of my decisions.
Once, Kim gave me a copy of the Bible. It was a small, pocket-sized book with a soft cover that contained 1,000 pages – a miracle by itself. I read it quickly, not understanding why I needed it. I did not become a believer, of course. Still, it shook the ideological framework instilled in every one of us by the Soviet system. The Bible seemed more humanistic than "The Moral Code of the Builder of Communism," posted as visual propaganda in every school's hallways.
Although my conversations with Kim seriously shook me, they didn't turn me into a philosopher or a dissident. They had a cooling effect on my studies, however. Technical sciences didn't offer answers to philosophical questions, and these issues consumed me more and more. I had a feeling that I hadn't chosen the right college, but I continued to attend classes and completed the first semester quite well. At the same time, my social life as a student was thriving. I made friends, and together we walked around Moscow and went to the movies and cafes. There were many options for rest and recreation in the city that distracted us from our studies. The Metelitsa café on Kalinin boulevard (today's Noviy Arbat) was particularly trendy among students for some reason, and going there was considered very chic. On Saturdays, we went to the dance club in our dorm. One of these visits to the dance club ended up being a turning point in my student life.
At the end of May, right before the second semester finals, a new and somewhat arrogant guy showed up at the dance club. He behaved defiantly, believing that he could do anything he wanted and was clearly looking for a fight. I lashed out. Friends tried to stop me by telling me his dad was someone important, and it wasn't worth it. I didn't budge, and a fight broke out. I struck him hard. I didn't hurt him too much, didn't break a bone, but he ended up with a big shiner. I didn't pay too much attention to this: stuff happens – you get all worked up, then you calm down, make peace, and even become friends.
Two days later, I was summoned to the dean's office. They made me write a statement and threatened to expel me. I tried to explain that he had been looking for a fight. It turned out that this guy was related to someone in the institute's leadership. As a result, the dance floor incident got blown out of proportion. They didn't expel me right away, perhaps because the guy's guilt was too obvious: he was extremely drunk and instigated the fight. However, the issue dragged on; I found myself visiting the dean's office over and over, my relationship with the department deteriorated significantly, and my already waning interest in my studies dimmed completely. There was no way I could tell my parents about this incident, and for some reason, I didn't share it with my sister or Kim either.
In the end, I told the dean that I would transfer to another college and asked for a chance to leave on my own volition. He agreed.
It was summer again, another June. One year prior, I had come to Moscow, taken college entrance exams, got accepted, and called my father to tell him that I got in. My father was so proud of his son… Now, I was holding expulsion papers in my hand. The fact itself didn't bother me too much, but I was unbearably ashamed to tell my father, and I couldn't bring myself to talk to him for a long time. I knew that this news would become a real tragedy for him.
But I couldn't delay any longer, and I went to the post office. I gave our home number to the phone operator and sat down to wait for the connection. The time couldn't have crawled any slower. Minutes felt like hours. And finally, far away in the receiver, I heard my father's happy voice through static and crackling – his son was calling!
"Dad, I quit the institute."
My father was overwhelmed with the unexpected news.
"Why? What happened?"
I struggled to find an answer. I couldn't tell him about the conflict, and he wouldn't believe I had flunked my classes – I was always a straight-A student, after all.
"It just didn't work out. I don't want to study anymore. I'll join the army."
My father went silent. He didn't know what to say.
"I'll go to Kharkov."
My mother's brothers lived in Kharkov. I just couldn't go home – I didn't know how to look my father in the eye.
I hung out in Kharkov for a month and then went back to Stepanakert. I could see that my father was upset, but he didn't ask me anything. I was very much avoiding the conversation about my interrupted studies too.
I got a job as a machine operator-assembler at the electrotechnical plant. I worked five days a week, and on weekends, I would head to the mountains with friends, often bringing a gun. Fall, always incredibly picturesque in Karabakh, painted the hills with a range of bright colors. Sometimes,
