A Love Letter to Armenia
I want to write about Armenia right now. There is so much to say.
Did I see it enough? What did I feel? What colors do I remember?
I may have many notes from Armenia, but I have to speak from the heart. Sitting in this Sarajevo apartment, while the FIFA World Cup football matches play on the television that I have muted, with the cat having gone to her house, I mean I had to close the door and window on her, I am ready to write about Armenia.
Today was a lot of admin work: money transfer, phone factory reset, emails, and so many more things. I also went to the supermarket, but that was much later. First, I packed up from the first home, walked here, and checked in smoothly. I had thought I would meet a bulky or big guy, or someone my age with a family. Most probably an older, serious kind of person. Instead, I was shown the house by a young guy. Nihad is twenty-five. He is managing his father’s apartment, a father who is no more, sadly. He passed away last year from spine cancer. What a Siberian sniper’s bullet couldn’t do, cancer did. The cancer shifted from the spine to the brain, and after the surgery, when they thought he was getting better, the family lost him within two days.
By looking at the house, you can’t tell the religion of the family. Maybe someone more observant than me can. There are beautiful glass bowls and white lacy curtains, but they don’t tell that the owner is Muslim. Bosnian Muslims form the majority of the country’s population, and I am happy to have found a host amongst them.
