Faith and Fear in Istanbul 

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The Alevis, Turkey’s largest religious minority, have been persecuted for centuries. Will the fallout from the war in Syria only make things worse?  

By Omar Waraich

At the end of every service, Alevis repeat the tale of the seventh-century massacre they consider the founding of their faith.

Photo by John Wreford

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ISTANBUL—In many ways, it resembles a traditional mosque. The worshippers slip off their shoes and tread slowly over rows of intricate, hand-woven rugs. Everyone is dressed demurely and the women tie scarves over their hair. Before the prayers begin, they sit cross-legged on the floor. Above them is a domed ceiling, in the center of which dangles a large chandelier.

But look closer and there are some key differences. The dome has 12 edges, Under each is a portrait of a different turbaned man. All of them have thick beards and piercing eyes, their faces shadowed by a saintly penumbra. These are the 12 imams revered by Shiites—Imam Ali, his son, Imam Husayn, and the 10 who came after them. All but the last of them were killed.

The timing is different from a traditional mosque as well. It is Thursday evening, the time of the week when many Sufis across the Muslim divide gather for spiritual remembrance, rather than Friday afternoon, when most Muslims meet once a week for prayer. There is no pulpit. There isn’t even a niche in the direction of Mecca. Instead, the worshippers sit in a circle of about 50 men and at least twice as many women. They sit near each other, the women as prominently placed as the men.

The Alevis are Turkey’s largest religious minority. There are no exact figures for the total population, but estimates range from 7 to 15 million, depending on whom you ask. They live mostly in Turkey but small communities are also scattered in nearby countries. The Alevis have faced ill treatment over the centuries, from the Ottomans to the nationalists in the early days of the Turkish republic. Now, they fear that President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s government is marginalizing them as it promotes a distinctly Sunni form of majoritarianism, and the fallout from the war in Syria slowly presses into their lives.

We just pray, and do so without seeking heaven or fearing hell.

Alevis follow an ascetic offshoot of Shiism that also incorporates aspects of the mystical branch of Islam known as Sufism. For the Alevis, there is no single “qibla”—the direction Muslims traditionally face to offer prayers to God. “We have no one direction,” says Veli Gulsoy, the head of the congregation at the Haci Bektas cemevi, or “hall of worship,” in Istanbul’s Gazi neighborhood. “For us, Allah is everywhere. He is very near. He is in our hearts.” Gulsoy is affectionately known by his flock as dede, which means grandfather. Men and women kiss his hand out of respect when they meet him, and never turn their backs toward him.

Gulsoy is a distinguished man in his 50s. He dresses plainly, in a charcoal suit and black shirt. Unlike Sunni and Shiite imams, he wears no elaborate headgear, beard, or flowing robes. Instead, he has neatly trimmed mustache, wooden framed glasses, and speaks in slow, deliberate tones. Unlike other Muslims, he explains, “We are not frightened of Allah. We just love. We just pray, and do so without seeking heaven or fearing hell.”

On the cemevi’s top floor is the prayer hall. The floors below host a conference center, a library, and an education center where teachers, in return for a modest fee, offer supplementary lessons in English, the piano, science, chess, and other pursuits. The Haci Bektas cemevi, which has a large portrait of its namesake, a 13th-century mystic revered by Alevis, on the outside of its building, is the largest of its kind in Istanbul.

A mural outside the Haci Baktas cemevi in Istanbul’s Gezi neighborhood shows the congregation’s namesake, a 13th-century mystic revered by Alevis.

Photo by John Wreford

The cemevi is located in the heart of Istanbul’s hardscrabble, working-class Gazi neighborhood. Most of the areas residents are Alevis or Kurds, another beleaguered minority in Turkey, and there’s a recent influx of new arrivals from among the large Syrian refugee population. To add to the mix, Gazi is home to a number of militant left-wing groups who routinely clash with the local police.

The cem, or gathering, doesn’t begin with the call to prayer, but the gentle strumming of the balagma, a traditional guitar-like instrument with a thick, holeless base. It is played by the ashik, or lover, who sings hymns of devotion as the worshippers take their places in a circle in front of him. As he eases into a song, some walk over to a 12-sided star marked in the center of the floor, bow down, and kiss it. “It is a way of saying, ‘I’m nothing when it comes to the world,’ ” says Duygu Budak, an Alevi archaeologist and my guide to the proceedings.

Humility and self-effacement are key themes in the Alevi faith, which emphasizes inner spirituality over public acts of worship. In between songs, the dede offers homilies. “If a person carries dislike in their heart their prayers will not be accepted by God,” Gülsoy intones, but without a hint of admonition. Later, he makes sharper distinctions between physical and spiritual acts. “If you pray on soil, but have no soul, your prayer is empty,” he says. “You cannot rely on your eyes to look. You have to see with your heart. With your heart, you can see everything. Don’t look. See.”

The dede’s words are interspersed with aphorisms from Sufi greats like Jalaluddin Rumi, the revered 13th-century poet, and the sayings of Imam Ali, Prophet Muhammad’s companion, cousin, and son-in-law. And as far as Alevis and others Shia-influenced groups are concerned, Ali is Muhammad’s true heir. Sunnis believe that Abu Bakr, Mohammed’s father-in-law, was his rightful successor.