A six-strong spin on religion

Eye-opening ... dancers at the Mevlevi Monastery, Istanbul. Photo: Getty Images

THE world is full of interesting and unusual religious practices, from worshipping cows to eating only fish on Fridays. As I sit shivering in a train station waiting room in downtown Istanbul, a demonstration takes the cake.
Six sombre-looking devotees of the Mevlevi arm of Islam are dressed in flowing robes of white, lime, pink and orange. On their heads they wear brown conical felt hats and as the folk music reverberates through the room they spin on the spot in a dizzying act of devotion.
I look around the cavernous hall and think that this must be just a strange game of dress-ups I've stumbled across on a frosty Saturday evening. But the performance is actually steeped in Turkish Islamic history and tradition. The Mevlevi order was started in 1273 and has strong links to the opulent Ottoman line of Turkish royalty. Because of their praying technique they are called the "whirling dervishes" and it is the most prominent form of Islamic "sufi" dancing. This twirling practice has spread throughout the Middle East, with groups found in Turkey, Syria and Egypt.

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I squirm in my seat a little as the spin continues, the drums pick up tempo and the whirlers begin to blur. The devotees of the Mevlevi order follow a strict procedure for each performance, or prayer. Their thimble-shaped hats represent their tombstones, as they symbolise their devotion to Allah. They wear coloured robes to display the various flowers of Islam and I'm told by one of the dancers, a sombre-looking Turk named Cem, that each turn is like a prayer as they whirl and chant Allah's name.
While they are spinning they have their right hand open and pointed towards God and their left stretching towards humanity and the ground, acting as a sort of religious conduit, subtly blessing the onlookers as they pirouette. While "learning the turning", as Cem tells me, there is no real technique to master. How long they can maintain the twirl depends on the depth of their devotion and ability to block out the wobbles.
As we stretch towards the fortieth minute in the stain-glass hall, the musicians continue playing their lutes and tablas and I can't quite tell if the glaze across their eyes is of devotion or tedium. The whirling dervishes are oblivious to anything else though, their hands are open and they keep spinning and spinning, like clotheslines in the breeze.
As the drums begin to slow and the mandolin player ceases his strumming, the dervishes gradually come to a standstill, without a drunken lurch or the need to vomit. They coil themselves back into their black capes and shuffle out of the hall, their scuffs echoing across the vast, empty room.
It has been a strange and interesting hour. I don't know if I'm convinced to go down to the markets and buy myself a robe and pointy hat but as I stand I do feel a little wobbly.


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