On June 14th, the Whirling Dervishes of Turkey appeared in Millenium Park in Chcago in honour of Rumi’s 800th birthday. As I myself am involved in the creative team putting together a multimedia show for the same avowed purpose, I was doubly intrigued. It was my first visit to this beautiful venue, -- well, beautiful except for the doggie-doo all over the lawn, and I’m still taken aback at the American practice of allowing and even selling alcohol at outdoor events.
Since it was presented by the Department of Cultural Affairs, The Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism and the Turkish Consulate-General, there were some pompous though mercifully short speeches before the show. The Turkish minister, who I swear introduced himself as being from the Ministry of Culture and Truism, introduced the opening act, singer Ahmet Ozhan as one of the foremost exponents of “classical Turkish music,” as well as a “renowned Rumi interpreter.”
Rumi and the Whirling Dervishes were being presented as Turkish cultural icons. Rumi was Persian, he spoke Persian, was born in what is now Tajikistan hear the Afghan border; the Sufism he espoused was a Persian mystical tradition, perhaps influenced by India. The milieu in which he taught was Persian, in lands that had fairly recently been opened to Islam – Rumi means “The Roman.” And the poetry which is his most enduring legacy is firmly in the Persian mystical tradition, Sana before him, Sa’adi contemporary with him, and Hafiz after him. He had nothing to do with Turkey or the Ottomans except that Konya, where his career was made, is now in Turkey. I hoped this would be more than a case of Turkey usurping some glory from one of the great poets of humanity. (And I tried to focus in spite of the family with three young children in the row directly in front of me who decided to have their hot dog picnic with wrangling over pickles and chips not before, but once the show had begun.)
Ahmet Ozhan was preceded onto the stage by his 10-piece orchestra, all with recognizably Persian or Persian-derived instruments, except for the jolly fellow on the end with a pair of cymbals the size of large dinner plates. He sang two songs, 12-15 minutes each; I couldn’t tell how much Turkish was contained in them, nor how much Rumi, if any, but there was a lot of “Allah’u’Akbar.” And the style was barely folk, much less classical, being less sophisticated than a ghazal. The instruments, after a short introduction, added little; there was no harmony to speak of, the drum repeated simple, impoverished patterns reminiscent of an Orff ensemble, and the cymbals were a murmuring presence. Furthermore, they all played all the time, so there was no variety to speak of, no changes in colour, though variety in the East is less a value than in the West. Perhaps they were supposed to be trance-like, but were merely monotonous. It was vaguely reminiscent of European café music, which in Europe is considered merely entertainment of no artistic consequence. It was hardly a tribute to Rumi, whose poetry is full of music a lot more evocative and rhythmic than anything we heard from the stage. It did nothing to change my view that the best Turkish music was composed by Beethoven and Mozart, who merely used their flavour as pastiches. The one interesting element in this music was the scale or melodic formula, a kind of poor man’s raga, which nevertheless conveyed some emotional content.
Then it was time for the dervishes. Besides the musicians, there were 9 singers and 8 dervishes, 6 of whom would whirl. The audience was asked to refrain from applause before of during the display. (They were also asked not to take photographs of videos, but this request was flagrantly ignored.) The opening flute solo was very captivating. Now this music was intended to be spiritual, and so different in intention than the “classical” music, and very effective and affective, though I noticed the oud (lute) player miss a few notes while he checked his watch and a couple of the others share a joke during the proceedings. Nevertheless a slow, ritualistic, trance-like movement was maintained throughout, culminating in several episodes of whirling with upraised hands, looking heavenward, counterclockwise, pivoting around the left foot while remaining in place. The effect was heightened by a skirt which billowed in the whirl. I noticed the crowd eventually getting restive from the repetitions – the process took an hour (they should try sitting through a Japanese tea ceremony), but this was not a chorus line from a musical stage show. Unfortunately, the ministry of truism back in Turkey in its efforts to secularize society had banned this practice altogether in 1925, and now allows it as a cultural dance presentation, and as such I felt as uncomfortable at moments as I did previously listening to Tibetan monks intoning their secret chants in public.
Were they in ecstasy while whirling? Probably not, but they went through their paces admirably, and there was a truly angelic moment right near the end when all the music stopped but for the ney (flute – a fine player) and the silent whirling.
Since it was presented by the Department of Cultural Affairs, The Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism and the Turkish Consulate-General, there were some pompous though mercifully short speeches before the show. The Turkish minister, who I swear introduced himself as being from the Ministry of Culture and Truism, introduced the opening act, singer Ahmet Ozhan as one of the foremost exponents of “classical Turkish music,” as well as a “renowned Rumi interpreter.”
Rumi and the Whirling Dervishes were being presented as Turkish cultural icons. Rumi was Persian, he spoke Persian, was born in what is now Tajikistan hear the Afghan border; the Sufism he espoused was a Persian mystical tradition, perhaps influenced by India. The milieu in which he taught was Persian, in lands that had fairly recently been opened to Islam – Rumi means “The Roman.” And the poetry which is his most enduring legacy is firmly in the Persian mystical tradition, Sana before him, Sa’adi contemporary with him, and Hafiz after him. He had nothing to do with Turkey or the Ottomans except that Konya, where his career was made, is now in Turkey. I hoped this would be more than a case of Turkey usurping some glory from one of the great poets of humanity. (And I tried to focus in spite of the family with three young children in the row directly in front of me who decided to have their hot dog picnic with wrangling over pickles and chips not before, but once the show had begun.)
Ahmet Ozhan was preceded onto the stage by his 10-piece orchestra, all with recognizably Persian or Persian-derived instruments, except for the jolly fellow on the end with a pair of cymbals the size of large dinner plates. He sang two songs, 12-15 minutes each; I couldn’t tell how much Turkish was contained in them, nor how much Rumi, if any, but there was a lot of “Allah’u’Akbar.” And the style was barely folk, much less classical, being less sophisticated than a ghazal. The instruments, after a short introduction, added little; there was no harmony to speak of, the drum repeated simple, impoverished patterns reminiscent of an Orff ensemble, and the cymbals were a murmuring presence. Furthermore, they all played all the time, so there was no variety to speak of, no changes in colour, though variety in the East is less a value than in the West. Perhaps they were supposed to be trance-like, but were merely monotonous. It was vaguely reminiscent of European café music, which in Europe is considered merely entertainment of no artistic consequence. It was hardly a tribute to Rumi, whose poetry is full of music a lot more evocative and rhythmic than anything we heard from the stage. It did nothing to change my view that the best Turkish music was composed by Beethoven and Mozart, who merely used their flavour as pastiches. The one interesting element in this music was the scale or melodic formula, a kind of poor man’s raga, which nevertheless conveyed some emotional content.
Then it was time for the dervishes. Besides the musicians, there were 9 singers and 8 dervishes, 6 of whom would whirl. The audience was asked to refrain from applause before of during the display. (They were also asked not to take photographs of videos, but this request was flagrantly ignored.) The opening flute solo was very captivating. Now this music was intended to be spiritual, and so different in intention than the “classical” music, and very effective and affective, though I noticed the oud (lute) player miss a few notes while he checked his watch and a couple of the others share a joke during the proceedings. Nevertheless a slow, ritualistic, trance-like movement was maintained throughout, culminating in several episodes of whirling with upraised hands, looking heavenward, counterclockwise, pivoting around the left foot while remaining in place. The effect was heightened by a skirt which billowed in the whirl. I noticed the crowd eventually getting restive from the repetitions – the process took an hour (they should try sitting through a Japanese tea ceremony), but this was not a chorus line from a musical stage show. Unfortunately, the ministry of truism back in Turkey in its efforts to secularize society had banned this practice altogether in 1925, and now allows it as a cultural dance presentation, and as such I felt as uncomfortable at moments as I did previously listening to Tibetan monks intoning their secret chants in public.
Were they in ecstasy while whirling? Probably not, but they went through their paces admirably, and there was a truly angelic moment right near the end when all the music stopped but for the ney (flute – a fine player) and the silent whirling.
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