Halil Cibran/Khalil Gibran on Houses

      Then a mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
      And he answered and said:
      Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
      For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
      Your house is your larger body.
      It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
      Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
      Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
      But these things are not yet to be.
      In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
      And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
      Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
      Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
      Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
      Tell me, have you these in your houses?
      Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
      Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
      Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
      It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh. It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
      Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
      But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
      Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
      It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
      You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
      You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
      And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
      For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night. 

Note: Special thanks go to Vacide Gören for her present, the Turkish translation of the Prophet, which made me re-visit this wonderful tiny book after many years.  

To My Dear Whirling Dervish

I saw him in the pouring rain for the first time. He was sitting under one of the giant umbrellas at Daley Plaza in Chicago. With a hooded sweatshirt, he could easily be taken as an American teenager.  I had no idea how he managed to light his cigarette but it was giving him airs for sure. I now know that we both eyed each other briefly and thought: "Can he/she be Turk?" However, that day, none of us said a word.

Next day, it cleared up. Bright blue sky of the early September was so befitting for the annual Turkish Festival. Since I was volunteering as a translator, I thought I could at least choose in which festival tent to work. I volunteered to help with the sales and the Q & A between the curious and the handcrafts instructor who came from Mardin.  She was weaving a rug/kilim on site and this always guaranteed admiration and curiosity among the festival visitors. I was happily refreshing memories of my several trips to Mardin and Midyat in 2000 while selling handcrafted products of ÇATOM women. Each item had a number and the name of its creator. Due to the limited number of the volunteers, I thought I’d miss almost all the performances including sema ceremony of whirling dervishes, concerts by Erkan Oğur and Ismail Hakkı Demircioğlu. I did not care much about the fashion shows or the folk dances.

                Then I saw him again. This time, he was bolder, just came in the tent and began to chat with me. He was staying at the same hotel with the handcrafts instructor so making small talk was easy. Our affinity grew stronger once I passed his test on Konya after being exposed to his detailed questions about his city of origin. As a high school teenager, he was acting "cool" by constantly switching between the personas of a joker and a rebel while hiding the broken pieces in his soul rather clumsily. "I am a whirling dervish" he announced. "Didn’t you see me performing yesterday?" I replied: "No, I did not. I saw you yesterday under that umbrella across and never took you as a semazen. Not even now, not in these clothes."  He laughed: "I look like an American, don’t I? But tell me honestly". It was hard indeed with his sneakers, sleeveless black t-shirt, jeans, and a baseball hat. "You look like a rapper if anything," I told him as honestly as he wanted. I got a bit upset when I saw the pleasure in his eyes after my reply.  "I am the youngest whirling dervish, nobody ever progressed as fast as I did." I remember secretly thinking, one of the key foundation stones of Rumi philosophy, modesty, hasn't settled in strongly yet in his personality. He was preparing for the university entry examination. He was supposed to be in school right now but due to the festival, he was granted special permission. Next day, he switched from siz to sen (the formal you to the informal you in Turkish) and spent most of his time in our tent when he wasn’t performing on stage.  He was a character for sure, a unique young man.

                The third was the final day of the festival, September 5th. "Please come and see me today, find another translator for God's sake" he said. I promised and he left to change. It was midday, clear blue sky again. Before their performance, a middle-aged fake blond belly dancer in her bright red costume showed up! Each time a belly dancer comes on stage, people had to choose a face or an attitude for themselves. Some make a serious face, some uncomfortable, some suddenly become aware of her or his own body, which remained forgotten in the midst of business meetings and other appointments. Some put on a happy face, smile and stare with admiration or "tolerance". Some keep switching from one face to another and hope that nobody is watching them. Daley Plaza in Chicago is a business center and people are having their lunch break. They are trying to choose between döner and lahmacun while watching the Turkish belly dancer and whirling dervishes who perform right after one another. In the meantime, I am chatting with a beautiful Lebanese woman who just told me that she fled for her life in July, came here to her relatives’ house in Chicago and the rugs she saw in our tent reminded her of the rugs in her abandoned house. I am lost for words. While thinking of the Israeli attacks, one corner of my brain is also asking the question: "Isn't there another way to market my country other than this weird combo of the belly dancing, whirling dervishes and döner?"
            And there he is! His black cloak opens up like a butterfly and the cameras around immediately went into to full functioning! His young face with Caucasian features attracted foreign tourists and Americans alike. They must have found his commitment to Sufism at such an early age very meaningful and moving. Nobody saw his face behind the stage while staring at the belly dancer’s body. His smoking and other "bad" habits.  They saw what they wanted to see and they saw him only on the stage: he is whirling, eyes closed, head tilted on one side, his tenure (white gown), flying around. As if he is not the one attending high school in Konya, listening to popular songs like his peers, trying to experience everything which are forbidden or disapproved by his parents, falling in love with girls in his neighbourhood, faltering, floundering in this early stage of adulthood. His story was hidden in his eyes, which were closed and shadowed by the tall brown sikke throughout the whole ceremony. It served as his shield not so unlike the baseball hat or the hood with which he replaced while not performing. He kept reminding me of Holden Caulfield.

                Now he was calling me "Özlem Abla" (used for elder sisters) in our last day together, sharing some details from his brief life. When someone walks in, he stops chatting. He knew perfectly well that I wasn’t going to judge or blame him for what he has done or said. He also felt the still-alive confused teenager in me.  There was a time when he spent days on the streets, hanging out with "really bad guys", making his mother truly upset. I asked him what "really bad guys" meant, which he replied mysteriously: "I'd better not tell." His father thought Sufi circles might do him some good so he steered his son’s energies to Sufism, and thanks to becoming a Semazen, he got used to the lights on stage and traveled abroad. On his way back to Konya from his journeys, his friends began respecting him.

                He kept bringing Turkish coffee in paper cups and Maraş ice-cream in crispy cones. How can I forget his checking the time in between his stories and questions, and telling me: "Let me whirl a bit and come back, reserve my seat Özlem Abla, will you?" Sweet of him to call me abla but he actually acted like a real abi (elder brother) as well. A guy who claimed to be an artist and talked to me non-stop in gibberish found himself kicked out by my dear Semazen. Plus, all his chiding (bordering yelling) was done in Turkish which cracked me quite a bit. The guy immediately disappeared, I could tell he was scared of my otherwise peaceful Semazen disguised in his jeans and baseball hat. Several hours after we said goodbye, he occupied my mind, I told Scott that I wish we took him around, chatted more outside of the festival zone. I wish I heard more of him. I still do. 

                It was only two days later that he was back to me in an email attachment sent through Bogazici University alumni of Chicago. There were two pictures of him published in the local newspapers. The alumni forum alone was already full of jokes and somewhat derogatory comments on the images. The title of the email was "extreme makeover". Did the youngest Semazen really deserve all these remarks? I did not think so. "Look at yourself in the mirror!" one part of me screamed at the commentators. Don't we all have our extreme makeovers (at work, home, parties, shower, bed-time)? I hoped that he never saw these comments, it was unlikely but one never knows. I was in a good mood. I imagined him having another smoke, shrugging his shoulders "let them talk, say whatever, I don't give a damn." He was leaning on one of the walls of the school building, his friends around him, listening eagerly to his stories beginning with "when I was in Chicago…".

                                                                                                               

October, 2006