I was born and raised in Belgium, but part of me always reached elsewhere, toward a place that felt familiar without words. Each time I travelled to Tunisia, I wandered through the narrow, sun-washed passages of the souks, instinctively drawn to old jewelry shops. I remember one in Tunis, its door half-open, its boxes filled with forgotten silver. Each piece felt less like an object and more like a trace, a fragment carrying the breath of another time.

​

The goldsmith, Hechem, spoke of the hands that once shaped them, of women who wore them with pride, of traditions carried quietly across generations. Listening to him, I realised I was not only looking at adornment, but at memory embedded in matter. Jewelry revealed itself as testimony,  of heritage, continuity, and lived experience. That understanding never left.

​

Many of the pieces I encountered led me back to La Medina, to workshops suspended between past and present. Among tools, dust and metal, I learned to read silver differently: not as ornament alone, but as cultural document. Each mark, each imperfection held stories, of migration, ritual, belonging. Conversations became bridges. Through them, I began to understand the importance of preservation, context and care.

​​

What began as curiosity slowly evolved into a practice of tracing, documenting and restoring. Fayahen emerged from this process,  not only as a collection of objects, but as an evolving space dedicated to material culture, research and long-term preservation. It is a practice rooted in listening: to stories, to gestures, to silences.​