Those Whirling Dervishes

One of the things that I was in spite of myself excited to see on our trip was a whirling dervish ceremony. Before I learned anything about it, it was in the same general category as belly dancing. But whirling is more than a dance the tourist board resurrected to attract suckers for folk dance to their country. It is a religious practice with mystic, philosophical roots – and though it is hard to tell out of context – a symbolic ritual.

Dervish is the name given to Sufi seekers following the spiritual practices maintained from the time of the Prophet Mohammed. Whirling dervishes belong to the Mevlevi Order, a Sufi order founded by the followers of Rumi, a 13th century poet and mystic who inspired the use of poetry and dancing to open people to the presence of God.

Like meditation, whirling is a metaphysical journey to the interior of self. The dancer pursues truth, abandons his ego, ecstatically whirls toward Perfection. "When the dervishes turn, they are focusing their attention on their inner centre and they turn around and around their own centre in this way, and there should be nothing else in their hearts except remembrance of God" (Sufism Journal).

Interestingly, this sect was banned by Turkish law in 1925 out of fear that it would cause problems with the new secular government. Thankfully, these restrictions have been relaxed in recent years, so we were able to enjoy some whirling dervish with our dinner one night in Istanbul.

Thinking too much as usual, I found it hard to enjoy the performance (if indeed that is what we were supposed to do). It's a bit perplexing, this performing of sacred rituals for tourists. It would seem like a convenient exchange – they get our patronage at their restaurant and we don't have to travel all the way to Rumi's shrine – but I somehow felt we had all cheapened something intimate and sacred. It was a bit like walking into a Russian Orthodox service with squeaky shoes. Also, though it is not very enlightened of me to say, it became a bit boring in such a mundane context (like watching someone pray on stage for an hour). It's hard to decide what to think about experiences like these. I really wish I were the kind of person who could just drink my tea and be amazed he didn't get dizzy.

Come, come, whoever you are.

Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.

It doesn’t matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times.

Come, yet again, come, come.

–Jalal al-Din Rumi (1207-1273)

from his collected writings, FIHI MA FIHI (literally "It Is What It Is")

Only saw three flute bands on our trip. Poor us.

The Wasa

The last taboo?

So: Is it okay to put human remains on display in a museum? Based on the number of mummies, skeletons, and burial artifacts we've seen on display, the answer among most curators seems to be a definitive yes. I'm not sure if this is even a debate in the museum community. Museologists – comments?

Surely there are many good and pragmatic reasons for studying remains, even displaying them for the public to see. But does that mean that we should do it? I've only recently started thinking about this, but I have doubts.

There are all kinds of taboos surrounding death, particularly in my own culture, so maybe this is just another and I am desperately clinging to it. But still I can't help thinking that's just the point. Especially among ancient cultures, we can't know what taboos existed, what the wishes of the deceased might have been, what beliefs they may have had. Who are we to trample over these things?

Some suggest that the scientific value of studying and displaying cultural remains is so great that when there is no one left to advocate on behalf of them, to represent their wishes, religious beliefs, etc., that we have the right, maybe even the responsibility, to study and understand them, then communicate findings and make the artifacts accessible to the public. Though I clearly see the point, the utter pragmatism of this argument disturbs me.

Such arguments are easily made about remote ancient peoples – but what about the recently dead cultures and people who have no advocates because they have been oppressed and overpowered? Who gives voice to the conquered? Have we come to a consensus that they deserve nothing? Or that our scientific need trumps any sort of individual wish? I'm not sure we've stopped to consider it.

The Body Worlds exhibit is a perfect case in point. Does it matter if the consent given by the subjects was highly questionable? Do these people stop having rights when their bodies die? If one were someone I loved, I would think these things would matter a great deal to me, as it would likely to most of us. So why is our concern not generalized? Maybe death is just not very real unless it is close to us.

Or maybe I am just simple and sentimental and have been in too many museums lately.