The Cloak and the Dervish

HUSSSSEIN SAT HUDDLED in a corner of the zawiya, his eyes closed like someone transported to another world, monotonously repeating the same verses of the Qur’an over and over again. His father, who had decided to try bringing Hussein out of one kind of isolation with another, had encouraged him to do a spiritual retreat. Hoping to turn his son into a real spiritual adept, he would come and check on him every now and then.

A wagon pulled up in front of the zawiya. Shortly thereafter, assisted by the slave who’d driven the wagon and supporting himself on a cane, Salem got out. He’d known where to find Hussein without asking anyone.

The Qur’an shook in Hussein’s hand when he saw Salem come in. Then he buried his face in the book again and went on with his memorization.

Coming up to him, Salem said, “I want you to help me find a place to live and work. I’m free now, but I’m also homeless, with no job and no protection. I’m more scared than ever now in a country where you get eaten alive.”

The boy nodded, leaning into the Qur’an he was holding, and said, “Believe me, nobody’s free. There’s no such thing as a free human being. There are just different kinds of prisoners, and different prisons. I can help you find a temporary refuge while your wounds heal. But I can’t guarantee you anything beyond that.”

Hussein went on, “There’s no place for us in this bitter world, neither for slaves like you, nor for those who, like me, fall somewhere in the middle—half-slave, half-free. But we can find rest in voluntary isolation. There’s nothing but either God the creator or people. I love God in spite of everything, but I hate people. At the same time, I’m ashamed of myself. God wouldn’t want a Muslim like me.”

Hussein’s way of talking was new and strange, and Salem, whom life had shattered in every possible way, found it incomprehensible.

Neither of them said anything for a while, and Hussein went on rocking in front of the Qur’an. Then suddenly he stopped and, without looking up, asked Salem, “Are you happy to have your freedom?”

“I don’t even know what it feels like to be happy,” Salem admitted, hanging his head. “What I do feel is a kind of relief, mixed with a fear of the unknown.”

“Maybe you could be a zawiya slave. You’d clean it, open and close it, and fill its water receptacles. You’d light the incense and paint its walls with lime. You’d prepare the ink for the students, arrange the books, and clean the sheikhs’ feet. If we had guests, you’d slaughter and cook a sheep for them. But would you be able to push a wheelbarrow full of hot coals, firewood, and incense up and down the city streets when we celebrate the Prophet’s birthday? Would you be able to heat the bendirs for the sheikhs, sling a drum over your back, and let a drummer beat on it from behind you?¹ Would you be willing to clean up after the adepts who lose control of their bowels as they wander around the zawiya chanting God’s praises at the hadra? Could you guard this place against evil spirits and ritual impurity? Could you march behind your sheikh with a ram on your back all the way to a shrine without needing to stop and rest?”

“Of course,” Salem murmured. “I’ve done things a lot harder than any of that.”

“You’re sick, and too much moving around would hurt you. But if you join the zawiya, you’ll be a great man who’s close to God. It’s completely different from the world of livestock you were living in before. Who knows? You might become an adept yourself someday. I’ll ask my father to find you work either here or in some other zawiya. He’s got lots of connections.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know how I got my freedom?”

“I already know how that happens. Slaves get their freedom either as a gift from their master for something good they did or because their master committed some sin that he wants to atone for. Slaves would never be allowed to advocate for their own freedom. That would be considered disobedience, and they’d be punished for it. But atonements and gifts are different, since they’re initiated by the master, not the slave.”

This said, Hussein went back to his recitation, his big writing tablet rocking back and forth before him. As he went into another trance-like state, tears welled up in his eyes, which were fixed on the verses of the Holy Qur’an.

Salem gave Hussein a bewildered stare, still wondering what had come over him.

As he turned to leave, he said, “You know, my little bird? You look handsome in that cloak.”

“I don’t recognize myself in it,” the young man muttered.

1. Meaning “large hand frame drum” in Turkish, the term bendir refers to a traditional wooden percussion instrument that is used throughout North Africa as well as in Sufi ceremonies.