We are meandering through the streets of this scenic Southern city.
Admiring the window displays, wandering in and out of various shops, and this one, this one catches our attention.
“Let’s go in,” my beloved suggests.
It’s a jewelry store. And something is drawing us in, something more than simply the unique jewelry. I marvel at the pieces: intricate designs, silver threads woven together, an elaborate array of pure, creative craftsmanship.
She comes to greet us, a pleasant American shopkeeper, her ears perking up as my beloved and I exchange words in a language most likely foreign to her.
“Are you Turkish?” she wonders. She tilts her head to one side, her eyes peering into mine, a gentle smile on her lips.
I instantly grow silent, unable to answer her.
“Armenian,” my husband responds. He nods towards the unique work arranged around the neat little shop. “Your work is beautiful.”
She gives us a knowing look. “I have visited Armenian churches,” she shares. Her voice is serene.
I am silent, still.
“Are you the artist?” my husband asks her as he picks up a delicate necklace.
“Oh no,” she smiles, fingering the beautiful ring she is wearing, another piece from the collection. I am examining an elaborate bracelet as she speaks. The details on these accessories are extraordinary.
“The artisans who created these pieces are all from Turkey.” All of a sudden, my stomach tightens. She goes on, “I have travelled there many times and met my German husband there.”
My eyes remain fixed on the jewelry. I can hardly move.
“And we travelled together to the villages and met jewelers there,” she rests her hand on a particularly striking display. “This is their work…we just bring it here.”
I look up and meet her gaze.
She looks at me curiously.
Villages. There is something about this word.
Villages. Why does this word strike me so deep?
She is trying to interpret the silences.
My beloved is doing all of the talking with her. And I am listening. I can sense that she is paying attention to my silence…
“What villages?” I finally speak.
“Erzurum,” she replies, excited that I have uttered a few words. She goes on to list 3 or 4 more places… but my mind stops at Erzurum.
“Here let me show you a video.”
There is a beautifully produced video showcasing the lush scenery of the villages, the intricate craftsmanship, and the artisans themselves.
Erzurum.
This was once an Armenian village I say to myself. Karin. My people are skilled craftsmen and women. They have always been.
I am drawn to the faces on the screen; their eyes are so familiar. These men and women, their hands, fingers moving fastidiously over silver and gold wire and jewels. Rough, calloused hands creating beauty over time.
She can tell that something has moved me. And something has, deep in my soul
There is history in these pieces, in every single one. I am unable to purchase any of them, but I am examining them carefully…the looping and crossing and wiring on each pendant, each bracelet… a craft has been passed down, a tradition…There is history in every piece here. A story. With every intricate design, a complicated story…
Paths have intersected, through horror most likely, at some point in time. Artisans, men and women, two cultures, one village, possibly learning from one another, passing down a heritage of art and beauty.
This is the incredible gift of art, even in the midst of terror.
She interrupts my musings abruptly. I sense she knows about our past. “So, something that the people are doing now, is they are sending in for their family tree and they are discovering that they have Armenian ancestry…” she offers.
I shudder; my shoulders automatically tense. My chest tightens. I try to swallow, and for a split second, I cannot.
What did she just say?
My hand is almost shaking.
Erzurum.
Then and now.
This interlaced collection of handiwork; an interwoven ancestry.
I blink back tears and focus on the screen again; the video is still playing. Those villagers, their faces. The creases around their ever familiar eyes.
I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly.
She is watching me.
“The pain of the past is in their bones and in our bones,” I whisper, finally able to speak up again.
A familiar middle eastern melody in the video catches my attention. I turn to the screen. The hypnotic rhythms linger as the artisans carry on with their creations…
Tags: Armenian, Dance of Erzurum, Erzurum, Houshamadyan, Karin, Middle Eastern, Village Life