Saturday, August 01, 2009

The unbelievable occurance before sunset in Istanbul

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 27

In Istanbul, we went to the zikr of the Mevlevi Sema, the whirling dervishes. The room was dimly lit by lamps in the corner, and the last light of the day came in through an old circular window with no pane high up on the western wall.

A group of musicians was playing.  They sat in a line under the window, and there was dust in the air between where we sat and where they were.  There were drums, stringed instruments, and the reed flute.

The dancers walked out one by one.  They were like solitary towers.  Their heads, bowed slightly, were crowned by tall cylindrical hats, their robes hung heavily from their shoulders to the floor.

The dancers stood in a line.  Now instead of towers they seemed to be cypress trees lined up one next to the other, swaying only slightly to the music as if being moved by a breeze.

In the center of the room was a fur mat.  It was a place reserved for the groups’ sheikh.

As the dance began, each dervish walked slowly to stand before this mat, bowed solemnly, then ever so slowly began to spin. 

Our host looked vaguely concerned, and we asked why.

“The dance is arranged like the solar system,” our host said, “and the sheikh stands in the middle as the Sun.  The dancers move around this axis even as they spin.

“There is no Sun here,” we whispered.

“I know,” said our host.  “We will have to watch.”

The dancers were all moving now, their heads were angled slightly to the side, their eyes shut in what seemed to be peaceful but fierce concentration.  Their feet lifted in unison lightly sweeping in a circle before being placed down again onto the old wooden floor.

The robes of the dancers flew out in flurries, they wobbled in the air, they seemed almost buoyant, and then as if in a mirage, we watched as the dancers’ feet lost contact with the floor.

We gasped.

One by one the dancers lost contact with the surface upon which they were dancing.  They lifted into the air.  Still spinning, they flew around the room.

Even as the musicians played, undeterred, the dancers flew to the upper reaches of the ceiling, obscured by the dust and becoming silhouetted against the light of the old circular window.

We stood.  We put our hands to our faces.  We looked around the room.  And as we stepped forward, the dancers departed, one by one, gracefully out the window. 

We ran out of that place and over cobblestone streets. Our host led us down the road and to a hill overlooking the massive dome of the Blue mosque.  It was now past sunset, and the minarets were lit by spotlights.

As we looked closer, we could see swirling lines of white spinning around and around the minarets.  Now dipping, now rising, they drew delicate and elaborate lines around the ancient architecture.  We strained to see the dancers flying in the distance. We were out of breath. 

“Those are seagulls,” our host said.

“What did we just see?” we asked.

Our host sat down on a park bench, still watching the birds spinning around the mosque.