A beaded gift

by Aoife Healy (Ireland)

Making a local connection Armenia

I was sitting on a bench in front of the History Museum on Republic Square in Yerevan in late April. I’m not one for planning trips in a ‘tick the box’ type fashion, so I found myself lounging on a bench observing the world go by. The city hummed with vibrancy, old men who called the city home sat conversing about life, ladies wearing their best clothes sauntered by. The chitter chatter in the air brought a liveliness to the earths underbelly I had not witnessed in quite some time. ‘Do you speak English?’, popped a face into my sight of view. One of the older men on my bench was intrigued to know. ‘Yes’ ‘And where are you from?’ he asked. ‘Ireland…and you?’ He laughed. ‘Ah yes, Ireland, I met a lady from there last year, I could not understand a word she was saying’. ‘Most of the time I don’t understand Irish people either, which is probably for the best’. We paused in acknowledgement that this was now an in joke between us. We smiled. Connected. ‘Do you mind me asking, what are those short-beaded things I see a lot of men playing with their hands are?’ I’d noticed a lot of man flicking short beaded necklace type instruments with their hands. They curled them around their fingers as they spoke to their friends and acquaintances, almost as an extension of themselves. ‘Ah yes, those are Tasbih, they are used for concentration or when a person is feeling anxious. Tasbih helps with expression’. I liked this idea, after all, I’d been struggling to express myself for most of my lifetime. ‘Here, have try of mine’. He pulled a short-beaded trinket from his pocket. It was black with smooth stones throughout. I wiggled it around my fingers, uncomfortable but intrigued to try something new. ‘I used to be a tour guide, that’s why my English is good. Are you busy today?’ I wasn’t. ‘Not really’ ‘Let’s walk’, he said. So, we did. Taking the Yerevan backstreets, we talked about life and Armenian history. I was impressed by his knowledge on architecture and what it meant to be Armenian in today’s world. ‘We are the nose capital of the world don’t you know? People come from all over the world to study medicine here...and noses.’ I’d noticed women with bandaged noses scattered throughout the city and now I knew why. As we wandered, we came upon a mosque. Hidden in the back streets surrounded by large blocks of crumbling flats was a beautiful building, protected by its gates with exquisite trees surrounding it, as through nature acting as its natural protector. ‘Armenians are not Muslim, right?’, I asked. ‘No, it was built for the Shia community, its a Persian Mosque’. For a lot of my life I’d been joining dots, both mentally and metaphorically. I knew Armenia had history connected to Muslim rule so just assumed it linked somehow to that. As we wandered a large open door came into view. We came closer. A multitude of red prayer rugs came into view. I’d never seen so many run into each other, not a crack between them. Something inside me told me this was a scared place not to be trespassed on unless invited. I wasn’t to enter the room. It was almost too tranquil to warrant disrupting the scene. Oneness. In a quiet moment I took a breath. I think my guide could feel it too for he stood close but said nothing. We moved on, silently. ‘Here, have this’, he said pulling his Tasbih from his pocket. I refused. ‘No, really please no, thank you’. ‘I insist. You have made my day different. For you, for your expression’. The exchange of the Tasbih was, in the order of the universe, inconsequential. During the following months however I would find it a useful tool and a prized possession, turning to it often, when I felt...unexpressed. I still felt uncomfortable - mastering expression would take more time than expected. Returning to my bench, I sat. For a second a sense of tranquility came over me. In a rare moment, everything felt connected. This was living. I breathed. I was present.