Veliky Novgorod drew considerable attention this September, regarded by many as the most fashionable spot of the month. For readers in Canada and the United States, the episode reads like a vivid case study in how heritage sites become flashpoints when development pressure rises.
Last August concerns swirled around Trinity site XVII, a key archaeological research area, as plans for the National Center for History and Archeology announced construction by year’s end. The project threatened to disturb delicate cultural layers, potentially erasing centuries of material record unless precautions were tightened and timelines adjusted.
Calls went out for volunteers to contribute for at least a day, and a petition circulated to postpone the excavations until the following year. After the controversy, volunteers and reporters from national media began arriving in force, turning the site into a hub of public interest and tension.
Attention focused on birch bark letters preserved in the damp, fertile soil. Medieval Novgorodians wrote with remarkable frequency about economic life—payments for goods and services, debts, and taxes. Yet some messages stand out for their remarkable character and insight beyond finance.
Among the most storied voices is the boy Onfim, whose surviving letters reveal how he learned to write and how he spent his leisure. One note depicts a four‑legged creature and carries the line I am a monster. Another shows him as a horseman charging at an enemy with a spear. These playful signals likely mirror what many seven‑year‑olds did in that era.
Wedding greetings also appear in the archive. The twelfth‑century Milusha sent such a wish to Great Kosa for his forthcoming marriage to Snovid, a message that modern publications would be reluctant to reproduce in full. Yet it is clear that medieval women possessed a sophisticated understanding of pleasure and personal expression.
Birch bark messages appear in smaller numbers in other cities as well. Letter 35 from Staraya Russa stands out, because a lighthearted line was added to a strictly economic note about how much money the merchant should receive: a crude verb takes the place of love, illustrating the social texture of the era without modern prudishness.
The phrase for brother Yakov, although not literal in intent, signals restraint: avoid showing off and keep to the common path. It is easy to imagine how the sentiment carried over as a familiar expression in male friendship. The fact that such a formula has faded from daily speech today is a small lament for linguistic memory.
In a sense, this curiosity binds Ancient Russia with the present. The way people spoke to one another carried an intonation not unlike what is heard today, a reminder that centuries ago citizens shared a common human instinct for humor and social nuance.
Still, humor does not replace responsibility. The rhetoric from the director of the Novgorod Museum‑Reserve, Sergei Bryun, centers on a call for measured behavior and restraint. He criticized misinformation spread by two people who worked at the excavation site for only a few days and launched a so‑called rescue mission against a threat that did not exist, arguing that attention should stay focused on actual work rather than rumors about devastation.
In a regional interview, he added that there is talk of going deeper into the mainland to uncover possible dinosaur and meteor remains, a remark that foregrounds the tension between sensational curiosities and methodical scholarship.
The official stance has often been to calm fears and emphasize that the excavations should be completed by year’s end, with the museum ready to respond if the timelines slip. Yet the public’s trust wavers in the face of competing voices and devalued rhetoric, and many observers remain cautious about assurances offered from official quarters.
What cannot be ignored is the profile of the volunteers who arrive to observe and participate. They tend to be well educated, many with management experience. They are not typically scientists, yet their involvement raises practical questions about logistics, coordination, and the use of capacity at the site. An experienced archaeologist with decades of expeditions noted with some surprise that there were days at the site that urgently needed attention but had nothing pressing to do.
There are other oddities that have not been openly discussed, and perhaps some matters are better left unspoken for now. Birch bark letters remain extraordinarily fragile and priceless. The figures of Onfim, Yakov, and the Great Scythe linger as living echoes, and someday the voices from medieval Novgorod will continue to speak to those who stand in their place and carry responsibility for this land, its culture, and its language. For now, these messages are in the public domain, accessible not only to museum staff and scientists but to everyone who cares about preservation. Therefore, at the slightest threat to birch bark letters, citizens are urged to sound the alarm, redirect questions, sign petitions, and volunteer if possible. The path forward requires organized public engagement that serves the interests of heritage and learning, not sensationalism about dinosaurs or meteors.
XVII should never become a license to let the problem drift. In ancient Novgorod, the idea was clear and urgent: this is not a moment to lie down. The writer’s view may not reflect every editorial stance, but it underscores a shared duty to safeguard what endures beyond the moment.