set in Sivas, Turkiye
Singing from the Âşık fills the cemevi.
I know everything that the dede said is the truth. I know the importance of family. It is what I believe in myself. For many years I have wanted grandchildren, more than my son will ever understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to see something come from you, live in another form. Even when I see my son, call my son, talk to my son, I remember: that person, he came from me. He’s my creation. He’s my attempt at creating being. And I did create someone special and talented, considerate and kind.
The walls of the room are red, covered with pictures of important religious figures to the Alevi faith, as well as a picture of the Turkish flag and a portrait of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in the centre.
I know everything the dede said is right. It is what I have been taught for years. It is what I myself believe. Family is everything. We live for our families. And these life decisions, like homosexuality, they lead us astray from the true pleasures of life, which involve spending time with family, living close to one another, and being there for each other no matter what.
The song of the Âşık is more chant than music, punctuated by the notes being played off his bağlama.
And yet something about what the dede said today, it is not sitting with me. Something about it is ringing hollow for me. And something about that makes me want to cry.
His nefes is sung on men and women coming to the stage, swinging their arms side by side. Unlike Mother, who is seated like all the other Alevi on the red carpets, their clothing is ornate. The men are in simple black vests and pants, with red sleeves attached to their white shirts. The mintans of the female dancers are ornately stitched, purple, red, and orange, bedazzled with silver and jewels, though their headscarves are white, loose, and modest.
What is it about these things that draw me here? What are the true reasons I come to attend Samāh?
More women and men join. The women are in a line dancing up and down to the sounds of the bağlama. The men are in another line moving in the opposite direction. They walk up and down, up and down, waving their hands out towards the carpet.
I suppose that I was taught these things for a reason. I grew up in Sivas, with constant fear and aggression that we would be killed for practicing these beliefs. I myself never faced violence. I married someone who was well off and a doctor. No one I knew was killed during the massacres. I only knew that they happened and that people like me could be killed for being who we were, and that made me feel a bit like I had to be like the seed of a peach: hard, firm, and unwavering in who I was.
The men and the women sitting cross-legged on the carpet clap their hands against their laps. The footsteps of the dancers and the clapping of the men match the vibrant sounds of the bağlama.
But have I been strong? I have certainly been stubborn. I have certainly never relented. I have listened to the beliefs given to me and never questioned them—and I was proud to do so.
As words of praise are given to Allah, the men and women fold their arms, look downwards, and walk in a circle.
My beliefs have also caused my son so much pain, so much hurt.
A dervish begins. The men and women dance in the circle.
Aren’t I his mother? Am I here to serve what the people around me believe? Or do I need to stand by those who truly are part of my family? After all, isn’t that the truth of what we are told to do?
Around and around each person goes, their arms spread out wide and open.
I did give birth to him. He is a part of me, even though what he does, according to my neighbours, my relatives, and my religion, is an unspeakable evil.
The men and women start to look at each other. In and out they whirl, the movements of their bodies expanding away then towards one another.
But what if he isn’t doing anything that is an unspeakable evil? What if he is doing something that is natural to him? Instead of listening to him, my flesh and blood, am I listening to all the people who want to see him killed off or abandoned but who have never known him or cared for him the way I have? People who also have shown very little genuine interest or affection towards me?
The nefes of the Âşık comes to an end. The pricking of his fingers against the bağlama slow down, and the lyrics of the nefes reflect on what it means to serve Allah, to live a life for Allah with dignity and grace.
