A night with the whirling dervishes

Cappadocia, Turkey
8th April 2010

Whirling dervishes
Photo credit: Meir Jacob

The high ceilings of the Caravansarai soared above, the room silent as a held breath. The Dervishes slowly removed their black cloaks, the shroud of the ego, emerging white and pristine beneath. The eulogy “Nat-I Serif” to the prophet began, the man’s clear voice ringing out, warbling through the hollow space, where travellers in ancient times had huddled together with their beasts of burden against winter’s frigid embrace. The drum voice interjected and then came the most hauntingly beautiful sound I have ever heard. This was the reed Ney, a six-holed flute, the sound it makes the ache of the human soul, longing for oneness with God. The music crawled up and down my spine, until all the hairs on my neck stood on end and a discordant ache was ringing in my soul. This is to represent the Divine breath, the first breath and I could barely catch mine in a shuddering intake as the music howled higher.

Old book page

The Dervishes began to circle around the room, the Devr-I Veled, their greeting to one another, their souls meeting though confined by the flesh of their bodies. The music strummed and throbbed, thrumming in my heart so it felt like the musician’s fingers were plucking my very core. Thrice they repeated the solemn, silent walk and without a word began to whirl, the Sema, their bodies turning like broken music box ballerinas. Slowly whirling their arms encircling their bodies in a disconnected embrace of their human selves. Achingly slow their arms moved over their bodies, languidly floating upwards like dandelion seeds twisting in the breeze. They spun, legs motionless beneath swirling robes, not even the squeak of an errant shoe. Arms open, right hand outstretched to the heavens, their heads tilted to the side, heavy with their tombstone hats. Pivoting around and around their heart, spinning like the earth on its axis, like the solar system around the desperate pull of the scorched sun, like tiny electrons circling in an atom, like the blood pulsing through their very veins.

Sema ceremony
Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

I was transfixed by one boy, a boy with the face of an angel. His head tilted, eyes drooping shut, rows of perfect, dark lashes pressed to his cheeks, he wore on his face an expression of beatific peace as he spun surrounded by a blur of spiralling white. A silent man wandered amongst them gently brushing against their robes. One by one they stopped, suddenly and shockingly still. This was repeated time after time until my head grew dizzy, my eyes heavy and all I could focus on was the soft curve if his cheek, the dark strokes of his brows and his hand drooping upturned in the air.

The Sema ends with the reading of the Qur’an, the dervishes solemnly donning their black cloaks. A prayer is said for the souls of all the prophets and for all believers. The dervishes silently filed out one by one, the only sound the swish of their cloaks echoing in the hollow hall.

A blur of white

The practice of Sufism was disbanded by the great General Atäturk in his attempts to separate religion from state. The Whirling Dervishes that perform are allowed to do so only for tourist entertainment. Yet gazing at that young boy it was hard to believe his outstretched hand wasn’t touching the face of God.

Whoever you may be, come
Even though you may be
An infidel, a pagan, or a fire-worshipper, come
Our brotherhood is not one of despair
Though you have broken
Your vows of repentance a hundred times, come.
Mevlânâ Celaleddin-i Rumi

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