What the 'Sema' felt like

On Saturday, 15th September 2018, I had an experience like no other I have ever experienced before. I attended the ‘sema’ in Konya. For those of you who might not be familiar with it, the ‘sema' is a performance of whirling dervishes. It originated in the thirteenth century and was founded by Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi.

The event was to be held at Konya’s Cultural Center (Mevlâna Kültür Merkezi), and was free and open for the general public, without requiring any prior booking or reservation. We found out that this event was held every Saturday evening in the indoor auditorium (which could seat 3000 people, by the way) of the cultural center. Additionally, there was also a performance every Sunday afternoon in the outdoor hall of the center, plus one every Thursday evening in the courtyard of Rumi’s mausoleum.

We all were pretty excited and eager to attend the program, as this had to be one of the most important things of our trip to Turkey. I had first read and heard about the whirling dervishes around two years ago, and since then, I had been in awe of the concept. I had also read a few of Rumi's poems (English translations, of course) and absolutely loved them. So this experience had to be a dream come true.

The performance was expected to begin at 7:00 pm and we left our hotel by 5:30, leaving plenty of time so that we could get good seats. We arrived at the cultural center quite early, so we spent some time exploring the place.

The place was no less splendid than the event it was about to host. On the first floor, there was a huge lounge. At one side, a group of four or five people sat on chairs, practicing the ‘ney’, a traditional, flute-like musical instrument used in mystic music. The people were of different ages - there was a young girl who looked like nine or ten years old, across her sat an elderly man with grey hair, who appeared to be the teacher. There were also a couple of young women and a man, all of whom were practicing the instrument with much fervour and dedication. Beautiful music echoed through the place and people enjoyed it while they carried on with their tasks, occasionally stopping by to watch.

On the sides of the circular lounge, there were a number of shops selling souvenirs, rosaries, books and handmade products. The shops were quite interesting, and we spent most of the time we had before the performance looking at the captivating stuff in there and listening to the music.

Soon, we found out that the auditorium doors were open, so we quickly went in. The hall was huge - no wonder it could host 3000 people. But even though it was huge, it wasn't lavish or extravagantly decorated. Rather, the design and structure of it was quite simple and elegant. The stage was circular, with seats on all sides of it except one, where there was a rectangular platform for the musicians. On one corner of the stage was a podium, and on the sides were little red and white mats, laid out neatly in a semicircle around the half of the stage.

When it turned seven, a man came to the podium and started speaking to the audience. As he was speaking in Turkish, I could not understand what he was saying, but I could figure out that it was about Rumi, Shams, and the dance of the whirling dervishes. He spoke for about fifteen minutes and we listened patiently, waiting for the show to actually begin. The local Turkish people, who obviously knew Turkish, seemed to be enjoying and appreciating what he was saying.

After what seemed like forever, he concluded his speech. Then, a dervish walked in carrying a red mat. He walked to the end of the stage and spread it out there, after which he returned backstage. The lights slowly grew dimmer and the rest of the dervishes started walking in. They were all wearing black robes, a tan coloured hat, and were walking elegantly in a neat line. The person at the beginning of the line seemed to be the eldest of them all, and the last one - who was a child, of perhaps eight or nine - was visibly the youngest. Each of them went to one of the small red and white mats that had been laid for them, and stood there. After they had all walked in - there were twenty three dervishes - another dervish came. This one was apparently their leader, as they all bowed when he entered. Then he walked down to the mat at the very end, which had been spread there a few minutes ago by one of the dervishes, stood in it and bowed. The rest of the dervishes bowed after him. Then the leader did a sajda, followed by the others. After they had done the sajda, music started. Someone was singing some Persian poetry.

The dervishes sat down listening, and whenever the name of God, the Prophet Muhammad SAW, Mevlâna Rumi or Shams would come, they would bow down respectfully. After a few minutes, some of them started to stand up. They walked to the central mat - of the leader - and did some greetings. It is difficult to describe it, but to say briefly, one of them would stand at one end of the mat and the other at the other end, and they would bow to each other. This carried on for some time. Then finally, the main part began. All of the dervishes took off their black clocks to reveal a long, white dress underneath. As the music of the ney started, they proceeded to the mat of the leader, one by one. Each one bowed down before it, and then walked ahead, slowly beginning to twirl on one foot with their arms held up in the air. As they moved on, they kept the right arm upwards to the skies and the left arm down towards the earth. I had read about it; it was meant to symbolize them receiving God’s love and mercy with one arm, and distributing it among the people with the other.

It felt absolutely majestic. Although I had intended to write about exactly what it felt like, I'm now beginning to realize that it's almost impossible. Just sitting there, watching them perform gave me a strange feeling. A feeling that this wasn't something ordinary or something that affected us physically. Rather, it had a spiritual effect on the audience (or at least on me).

One might say that the performers weren't real dervishes, like there used to be in Rumi's time, rather, only dancers trained to perform it. But I felt that it was more than that. This performance, which although may be classified as a 'dance’, was much more than just well rehearsed steps to music. It held a much deeper meaning than, perhaps, one which I could comprehend.

The performance ended with a beautiful recitation of Ayat al-Kursi (Verse of the Throne), a verse from Surah Al-Baqarah. It was the best best recitation of this verse that I have ever heard. The whole performance did not last very long - it was probably lasted no more than an hour. But the impact it gave and the state in which it left us would be remembered for years to come.