Talk to Strangers IX: Witness

This could be a story, but it’s more an odyssey, a journey, a witness.

On my last night in Istanbul I was invited to attend the service at a local Sufi mosque. A sect of Islam, Sufism uses trance-like chant, music, breathing and movement to praise Allah. You may be familiar with whirling dervishes. Dressed in white, they twirl in beautiful smooth circles, wide “skirts” gently rotating outward like large morning glories opening to the sun. This particular mosque is well known for preserving the traditional music through audio recordings and notations since the 1920s. I know very little about this gentle religion. I am writing more about the boys who introduced me to a community they love.

While in Istanbul I stayed at a guesthouse run by a friend of a colleague, so I was not a stranger. I felt at home as soon as I arrived in this unusual (to me) city, with all it’s smells, sounds and sites. The son of the household is almost a man, coming to the end of his teen years, and is an accomplished musician. At a young age he picked up a traditional string instrument. I think it’s called a tanbur, but I may be mistaken. Whatever it’s called, it’s large, with a deep bowl and long neck. He is often called upon to play at his mosque, along with his two young friends, one who plays something that looks a bit like a banjo, but it’s bowed, like a violin. The other plays a kavel, or flute. They make quite a threesome, these young Turks, still in their teen years, and they are obviously good friends.

“Come with us, to the mosque.” I was invited. I could not refuse. I went into a world that is so different from my own and yet so familiar. In this world the men and women sit apart, the men in the main “sanctuary” and the women behind a low railing, more as observers. There were guests mixed among both, standing out in their curiosity. I was a bit nervous; I wanted to be a polite guest.

The boys needed to practice and get tuned up while I was left outside to wait until the hall was opened to all. There was a commonality wherever I looked: A beautiful pregnant women, close to term, who was greeted with warmth by the olders; an elderly man who was brought some leftover food from the dinner previously served; two good friends talking; folks going this way and that tending to the needs of the community. There was a spirit of generosity and love in the place. There was also ritual that seemed familiar and different all at the same time. Instead of a sign of the cross, there would be a pause, a head bowing, and a touch of palms to face. I needed to cover my hair; I used to pin a tissue to my head if I forgot my scarf when I was young. I need to remove my shoes, which is becoming more and more common in my world.

The description of the service I’ll leave for another time. It filled me the way singing with women does, or doing pranayama yoga with a group. The air was filled with rhythmic sounds and the chanting could be felt in my bones. The boys were in the midst of the men, accompanying the lilting voices with their talents.

We were there for over two hours. Afterwards, with a bit of back and forth between the boys, I was invited to join them to eat. Of course we would eat! It’s a way to continue the community experience. And I was honored. I could handily be these boys grandmother, had I had children at an early age. Only one spoke English, the son of my host, and he insisted, like the wonderful young man he was growing into.

We walked through the neighborhood, past old cemeteries lit in the light of the full moon, tea shops with groups of men sitting at low tables on short stools, open squares with children playing or couples doing their couple thing. It was after midnight and there was liveliness in the air. I was seeing a part of Istanbul that my tourist feet had not visited. One of boys interpreted carvings on a gravestone. Written in an Ottoman language that the others did not know, it was a precious sharing. They also acted like boys together, punching each other and goofing. I was enjoying my cloak of invisibility at times and at others brought into the conversation through the interpretations of my host. We ate kabop. We shared desserts. We laughed, even though we did not speak the same language. They spent the evening “processing” their experience, talking about the mistakes made, the exchanges between these youngsters and the older, more experienced, members. It was different and yet it was the same.

I am humbled by this experience, a non-believer drawn into a believing world by the communal spirit of love.