I hurry myself outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the celebrations in a church. I enter St.Antoine. All preparations for the ceremony are done; there's a caution on the door but nobody seems to take account of it, as they rush inside and walk around. Memoir of Pope's visit last month, a bronze statue stands at the court. Some take photos in front of it while others give explanations to justify them being there saying "I even light up a candle for my dear".
All things are overtly touristy at St. Antoine, so I decide to find somewhere else to witness the grandeur of December 24th. A little church which's always closed crosses my mind, I hastily make a quick calculation and decide not to risk missing the ceremony and head to Kurtulus where several of them are situated.
Trying to avoid crowds in Istiklal street, I make a turn to Suslu Saksi street and light up as I see women walking towards me holding hardtacks. This is what I was looking for. Both sides of the street are closed to traffic. The Surp Hovhan Vasgeperan Church which's always closed, never catching one's attention is open and glimmering today. I gently wave to the guard and silently glide inside.
A chorus of three are singing as I enter. Candles, lights and fumes illuminate the interior. Frescoes look brighter than ever. Everybody stays silent as the chorus goes on. This small community further introverts in their solitude. There are more elderly in sight than the young as I look sitting at the back of the decks. Sermon goes on as the community silently accompanies it.
A woman sitting next to me stares at baby Jesus, as if spellbound, routinely rolling her prayer beads. She prays, murmuring. I stick out between all these people, dressed in their cleanest blacks and a woman rolls her eyes as she reaches out a hardtack for me. She understands that I slipped in but ignores this fact. The singing ends and everybody walks to the priest, waiting for a blessing. An elderly stays put as the father comes to her.
I slowly head for the exit. There are two women at the door, one young and one a little older. I remember that I fotgot to light a candle and turn back while thinking where to leave my hardtack. As I return, one of them says "You better pray for a handsome fortune". I smile back. She misinterprets this as shyness adding "You're young but a good husband is a good husband". "What did you wish for?" I ask, "I made wishes when I was young, not anymore" she replies. "Our wishes goes to them" she says pointing to the young woman next to her.
She has a bright face, she went out briefly because she got emotional. Lost her husband this year. This the first Noel without him. That's why she'd wear all black untill the next one. On top of all, there's no snow this Noel. "Would it be better if it snowed?" I ask. "You remember the poor, the cold, your home when it snowes" she replies.
As I descend the large steps, I pray for a little cold. Knowing that I'll loose the celebrations as I step outside, I once again look to this Armenian community hardly amounting to 100 people.
When I arrive at home, I hear the bells of the nearby church. I wonder about the verger, the community for whom the bell tolls and I wonder if they remember about the poor, the cold or their home in this Noel without snow. (AO/EU)
