Will Armenian Lavash Share the Fate of Ukrainian Palyanytsia?

For Moscow, perhaps the most painful realization is that even Yerevan has now effectively put it on the blocked list

Moscow has just endured another sleepless “election night”—this time in Armenia. Then again, perhaps “sleepless” is an exaggeration. By 12:40 a.m. on June 8, Ukrainian collaborator and Kremlin loyalist Oleg Tsaryov had already admitted defeat: “We lost in Armenia. The only question is by how much—whether as badly as in Hungary or not.” Having received yet another blow from its own political miscalculations, Moscow went to bed restless, once again nursing the bruise left by a rake of its own making.

In the run-up to the Armenian elections, the Kremlin deployed its full arsenal of pressure tactics—methods all too familiar to Ukrainians who remember the days of Russia’s chief sanitary inspector, Gennady Onishchenko. Whenever Kyiv showed signs of moving closer to Brussels, he invariably discovered heavy metals, dangerous bacteria, or even threats to national security lurking in Ukrainian chocolates, cheese, and fruit juices.

Fighting an Electoral Fire with Brandy

Russia’s Federal Service for Veterinary and Phytosanitary Surveillance (Rosselkhoznadzor) imposed restrictions on imports of Armenian cherries, apricots, plums, peaches, nectarines, grapes, and other produce. It also banned the transit of these goods through Russian territory to other members of the Eurasian Economic Union (EAEU). The agency justified the measures by citing a growing number of alleged violations in Armenian fruit shipments that supposedly threatened Russia’s phytosanitary safety.

The explanation sounded strikingly familiar: whenever a neighboring country begins drifting away from Moscow, Russian regulators suddenly discover previously unnoticed health, safety, or quality concerns. Armenia, it seemed, had become the latest target of a well-worn Kremlin playbook.

Earlier, Rosselkhoznadzor had already launched a “fish war” against Armenia and banned imports of Armenian cucumbers, tomatoes, herbs, strawberries, flowers, mineral water, brandy, and wine. When it became clear that attempts to douse Armenia’s electoral fire with brandy were producing little effect, the Kremlin reached for heavier weapons.

Russian officials began warning that Armenia would soon have to choose between the Eurasian Economic Union (EAEU), of which it remains a member, and the European Union, which it hopes to join one day. Putin himself reminded Armenians that “the peoples of Russia and Armenia have been bound by ties of friendship and special relations for centuries.” Ukraine’s experience suggests a simple rule of thumb: whenever Putin starts invoking “historic brotherhood” — or appears ready to write an essay about it — it is time to brace for trouble.

How the Russian Orthodox Church and Russian Intelligence Came to the Rescue of the Armenian Apostolic Church

As in Ukraine before it, another familiar figure soon entered the scene: Sergei Naryshkin, the head of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR). With great solemnity, he cast himself as a defender of Armenian souls against what he portrayed as Europe’s anti-Christian agenda.

According to Naryshkin, the European Union had set its sights on something sacred: the property and influence of the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) in Armenia. The SVR alleged that the EU Monitoring Mission in Armenia was seeking to deprive the ROC’s Yerevan-Armenian Diocese of its property rights and disrupt its ties with the Armenian Apostolic Church (AAC). Naryshkin further claimed that EU-backed organizations had accused ROC representatives of interfering in Armenia’s domestic affairs and electoral process.

Yet from Moscow’s perspective, almost any investigation into the activities of Russian-linked religious figures tends to be framed not as a matter of law or national sovereignty, but as evidence of “persecution of Orthodoxy.” The narrative is a familiar one: criticism of Russian influence is recast as an attack on faith itself.

Interestingly, Moscow has simultaneously defended the Russian Orthodox Church’s structures in Armenia while condemning the Armenian authorities’ actions against certain hierarchs of the Armenian Apostolic Church—even though the two are formally separate religious institutions. This suggests that the Kremlin’s concern is not so much the welfare of the Armenian Apostolic Church itself as the steady erosion of Russian influence in Armenia.

In reality, that influence suffered a major blow after the conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh. Russia had long presented itself as Armenia’s security guarantor, yet when the crisis came to a head, the Kremlin chose not to intervene decisively. The calculation in Moscow appeared straightforward: Armenia was seen as a loyal client state with nowhere else to turn. Instead, the opposite happened. Both Armenia and Azerbaijan increasingly charted their own courses, independent of Russian expectations.

Russia’s Electoral Tricks Failed to Deliver

The campaign then escalated further. Pashinyan delivered what amounted to a thinly veiled rebuke of Putin, remarking before television cameras that, unlike Russia, Armenia still has free elections, independent media, and unrestricted internet access. The message was diplomatic in form but unmistakable in substance.

The effort, however, failed to gain significant traction. Rather than producing a reliable pro-Russian alternative, it highlighted the growing disconnect between Moscow’s assumptions about Armenia and the realities of Armenian politics. Once again, the Kremlin found itself relying on methods that had already yielded disappointing results elsewhere in the post-Soviet space.

Moscow, for its part, attempted to influence the outcome by borrowing from a familiar playbook. It sought to engineer an Armenian version of the “Georgian Dream” model, rallying support around a locally rooted billionaire who also held Russian citizenship. The experiment failed to gain momentum.

Nor did more rudimentary methods prove any more successful. Reports emerged of Armenian-born Russian citizens being bused in to vote for Moscow’s preferred candidate—a tactic reminiscent of political “electoral tourism.” In one widely circulated video, a participant candidly admitted that he had little interest in Armenia itself; his only concern was ensuring that Pashinyan did not win. Yerevan responded with a touch of irony: Russian-Armenian political tourists were discreetly reminded that military reserve summonses might be awaiting them at the border.

Predictably, these efforts backfired. Rather than weakening Pashinyan, they strengthened him. The same was true of the Kremlin’s broader influence campaign: media stories portraying him as an “American agent,” claims that French intelligence was secretly running the country from Yerevan, and the usual array of coordinated social-media narratives and disinformation networks. Instead of undermining public support for the prime minister, such tactics only reinforced the perception that outside actors were attempting to interfere in Armenia’s political choices.

Far from damaging Pashinyan’s standing, Moscow’s interventions ended up providing his political movement with additional momentum—and, ultimately, additional votes.

The same dynamic was reinforced by comments from Belarusian leader Alexander Lukashenko, who dismissed Armenia’s European aspirations by declaring that “Armenia is of no interest to the European Union,” and by remarks from Russian State Duma Speaker Vyacheslav Volodin, who complained that “after everything Russia has done for Armenia, it receives treachery instead of support.” Rather than undermining Armenian public opinion, such statements only strengthened the perception that Moscow viewed loyalty as an obligation rather than a choice.

Eventually, Putin himself entered the debate, publicly drawing a direct parallel between developments in Armenia and the events that, in his interpretation, preceded Russia’s war against Ukraine.

When Will Moscow Learn from Its Own Mistakes?

If the Kremlin genuinely believes that the same forces are at work in both cases, it is reasonable to assume that it may also be tempted to pursue similar responses. The consequences of that mindset are already visible today.

Not in Ukraine, however, but increasingly in Russia itself—a country where, as the old joke goes, one may still be allowed to look at reality, but photographing it has become forbidden.

Yet the central issue is not what might happen in the future. The more significant reality is that Yerevan has been openly drifting away from Moscow for years. Russia’s repeated attempts to pull Armenia back into its orbit have resembled a familiar pattern: the Kremlin keeps stepping on the same political rake it once encountered during elections in countries it also considered firmly within its sphere of influence, including Ukraine and Moldova.

Whether Armenian lavash will ultimately share the fate of Ukrainian palyanytsia in the Kremlin’s strategic imagination therefore remains an open question. One can only hope that the answer does not become a painful one—above all for Armenia itself.

For Moscow, still haunted by lingering imperial reflexes and the loss of influence across the post-Soviet space, even Yerevan’s gradual distancing appears difficult to accept. What seems to trouble the Kremlin most is the realization that Armenia, too, has effectively decided to put Russia on mute.

Max Meltzer