Tanoura is Sleeping!
Exploring an Ancient Whirling Ritual in Cairo
by Laurel Victoria Gray
For a dervish, there must be a purpose, a cause for existence, and inside the cause, a True Human Being.
Jelaluddin Rumi1
“Mumkin? Itnen?” I asked holding up two fingers and shamelessly fluttering my eyelashes.
The doorkeeper only shook his head and looked away. Dagmar, an exquisite Oriental dancer from Berlin, stood with me and a group of frustrated tourists who had also been prevented from entering. They argued with him, begging to be let into the performance. Dagmar commented that she was sure that at that moment the doorkeeper must have been the unhappiest man in Cairo.
From the other side of the door, we could hear the energetic strains of “Salaam Aley” pouring into the foyer of the Gouriya Palace. I decided that this surely must be one of the torments of Hell, to be locked out of a performance but permitted to hear the music. The door cracked open and another head popped out. I caught the eye of the man and repeated my flirtatious plea for two seats. He saw me, but ducked back into the performance hall.
It seemed odd that I would be so frantic to get in. I had seen many performances of tanoura (the Egyptian “whirling dervish” dance) on video and always considered it to be a theatricalized, circus version of the elegant ritual of the Turkish Sufis. The brightly colored skirts, often twirled off of the waist and above the dancer’s head, seemed to me to be an example of “airport art”—traditional folklore twisted into a consumer product for tourists.
Yes, the Turkish sema, as the turning ritual is properly called, is quite different from the Egyptian tanoura. Years ago, in graduate school, my Turkish friends asked me to organize publicity for a Turkish Festival at the University of Washington. They had arranged an exciting and multifaceted event featuring music, dance, crafts and art. But the highlight was to be an appearance by a “whirling dervish” group based in Canada, which would present a formal sema.
On the night of the event, 700 people crowded into the large gym. Everyone sat on the floor. Children squirmed and babies cried. Everyone talked. Then, after a brief explanation, the ceremony began, slow and stately, with participants robed in black. The ritual walk and bows seemed boring to some in the audience: “When are they going to start spinning?” students whispered. A group of superb musicians performed the regal, dignified music. Dr. Ali Jihad Racy played nay, a reed flute expressing the divine breath of all creation and whose sounds were believed to open up the heart. The music seemed to calm the restless members of the public and they fell silent, relaxing and watching things unfold.
Finally, the dervishes dropped their robes and began to spin. The full, weighted skirts of their garments—the symbolic white of a death shroud—began to open and the entire room was literally filled with light. The stark black husks of the dark robes fell to the ground and luminous white roses blossomed before our eyes. It was as if someone had turned on all the lights in the room. We were enlightened.
At the end of the ritual, I noticed that the babies had long since stopped crying. The adults had stopped fidgeting. And my friend, who had been going through a deep personal trauma, mentioned that she did not once think of her troubles throughout the ceremony. We all felt light of heart. Yes, enlightened.
This then, had been my experience of “whirling dervishes.” The measured pace of the ritual, the stark contrast of black and white, the stately music—all shared little resemblance to the gaudy costumes and flamboyant tricks of the Egyptian tanoura.
While living in Uzbekistan, I had participated in another Sufi ritual, a women’s devran zikr held in Kokand. These ceremonies, dedicated to the remembrance of God, proved profoundly emotional and personal. The experience was cathartic but never intended as a performance. The television crew that filmed us seemed an intrusion, a desecration, but the director insisted that it was necessary since the tradition was dying out. After the ritual, the elderly women surrounded me, singing, “We the old kalenders, greet you, the young kalender.”
Kalender--a wandering dervish. Odd that they should give me such a name. The kalender was a mystic who sought a higher morality. These peripatetic figures usually announced their arrival in a new town or village “with a fanfare of flags, flutes, drums, and tambourines,” but, as far as I knew, never with television crews. “As a type of vagrant holy man, the kalender came to replace the shaman in the religious life of the Turkish tribal and village community.”2 The dervish, then, was a descendent of the pre-Islamic shaman of Central Asia.
With these experiences of Sufi rituals in mind I was surprised to feel so compelled to see this Cairo performance. Stunned and disappointed at the doorkeeper’s refusal, I reluctantly walked out of the building. I knew I was supposed to be on the other side of that door. “I can’t believe it,” I began to complain to Dagmar, when a man suddenly appeared, beckoning us back into the anteroom. He opened the door and let us inside, finding Dagmar a place to sit. I remained standing so I could see better.
The live music filled the room and the audience was completely enraptured. Energy flew back and forth between the performers and the crowd, which was mainly comprised of foreigners. No wonder the video taped performances had left me cold; our modern technologies are inadequate tools for capturing magic. Instead of relying on a camera, I engraved this evening upon my heart.
For a dervish, there must be a purpose, a cause for existence, and inside the cause, a True Human Being.
Jelaluddin Rumi1
“Mumkin? Itnen?” I asked holding up two fingers and shamelessly fluttering my eyelashes.
The doorkeeper only shook his head and looked away. Dagmar, an exquisite Oriental dancer from Berlin, stood with me and a group of frustrated tourists who had also been prevented from entering. They argued with him, begging to be let into the performance. Dagmar commented that she was sure that at that moment the doorkeeper must have been the unhappiest man in Cairo.
From the other side of the door, we could hear the energetic strains of “Salaam Aley” pouring into the foyer of the Gouriya Palace. I decided that this surely must be one of the torments of Hell, to be locked out of a performance but permitted to hear the music. The door cracked open and another head popped out. I caught the eye of the man and repeated my flirtatious plea for two seats. He saw me, but ducked back into the performance hall.
It seemed odd that I would be so frantic to get in. I had seen many performances of tanoura (the Egyptian “whirling dervish” dance) on video and always considered it to be a theatricalized, circus version of the elegant ritual of the Turkish Sufis. The brightly colored skirts, often twirled off of the waist and above the dancer’s head, seemed to me to be an example of “airport art”—traditional folklore twisted into a consumer product for tourists.
Yes, the Turkish sema, as the turning ritual is properly called, is quite different from the Egyptian tanoura. Years ago, in graduate school, my Turkish friends asked me to organize publicity for a Turkish Festival at the University of Washington. They had arranged an exciting and multifaceted event featuring music, dance, crafts and art. But the highlight was to be an appearance by a “whirling dervish” group based in Canada, which would present a formal sema.
On the night of the event, 700 people crowded into the large gym. Everyone sat on the floor. Children squirmed and babies cried. Everyone talked. Then, after a brief explanation, the ceremony began, slow and stately, with participants robed in black. The ritual walk and bows seemed boring to some in the audience: “When are they going to start spinning?” students whispered. A group of superb musicians performed the regal, dignified music. Dr. Ali Jihad Racy played nay, a reed flute expressing the divine breath of all creation and whose sounds were believed to open up the heart. The music seemed to calm the restless members of the public and they fell silent, relaxing and watching things unfold.
Finally, the dervishes dropped their robes and began to spin. The full, weighted skirts of their garments—the symbolic white of a death shroud—began to open and the entire room was literally filled with light. The stark black husks of the dark robes fell to the ground and luminous white roses blossomed before our eyes. It was as if someone had turned on all the lights in the room. We were enlightened.
At the end of the ritual, I noticed that the babies had long since stopped crying. The adults had stopped fidgeting. And my friend, who had been going through a deep personal trauma, mentioned that she did not once think of her troubles throughout the ceremony. We all felt light of heart. Yes, enlightened.
This then, had been my experience of “whirling dervishes.” The measured pace of the ritual, the stark contrast of black and white, the stately music—all shared little resemblance to the gaudy costumes and flamboyant tricks of the Egyptian tanoura.
While living in Uzbekistan, I had participated in another Sufi ritual, a women’s devran zikr held in Kokand. These ceremonies, dedicated to the remembrance of God, proved profoundly emotional and personal. The experience was cathartic but never intended as a performance. The television crew that filmed us seemed an intrusion, a desecration, but the director insisted that it was necessary since the tradition was dying out. After the ritual, the elderly women surrounded me, singing, “We the old kalenders, greet you, the young kalender.”
Kalender--a wandering dervish. Odd that they should give me such a name. The kalender was a mystic who sought a higher morality. These peripatetic figures usually announced their arrival in a new town or village “with a fanfare of flags, flutes, drums, and tambourines,” but, as far as I knew, never with television crews. “As a type of vagrant holy man, the kalender came to replace the shaman in the religious life of the Turkish tribal and village community.”2 The dervish, then, was a descendent of the pre-Islamic shaman of Central Asia.
With these experiences of Sufi rituals in mind I was surprised to feel so compelled to see this Cairo performance. Stunned and disappointed at the doorkeeper’s refusal, I reluctantly walked out of the building. I knew I was supposed to be on the other side of that door. “I can’t believe it,” I began to complain to Dagmar, when a man suddenly appeared, beckoning us back into the anteroom. He opened the door and let us inside, finding Dagmar a place to sit. I remained standing so I could see better.
The live music filled the room and the audience was completely enraptured. Energy flew back and forth between the performers and the crowd, which was mainly comprised of foreigners. No wonder the video taped performances had left me cold; our modern technologies are inadequate tools for capturing magic. Instead of relying on a camera, I engraved this evening upon my heart.
