My grandmother Jean was a very tall woman who wore heels. Her clothes were tailored, and she was always dressed for visitors {as who knew, after all, what the day might bring?}. One of the keys to her inimitable style was her jewelry. Not layers of pearls or discreet gold chains. Not charm bracelets or diamond rings. But tribal jewelry. Indeed, very often my grandmother could be found wearing weighty ethnic neck pieces. Against the black sheaths she favored, the tribal jewels seemed to channel intrigue - as if she had bought each piece from a turbaned dealer in a saffron scented souk somewhere. And sometimes she actually had.
And so it was with a sense of longing and nostalgia, that I watched the student jewelers of Kabul. As they melted, filed, and soddered, I couldn't help but think of my grandmother Jean.
In my mind's eye, I could see my Grandmother Jean weighing that bracelet in her palm or holding up those earrings to the light....
Yes, I could almost hear her say, Asalam-aleikum. Could I possibly trouble you for the price?
Images taken at Turquoise Mountain in Kabul, Afghanistan.
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