The Night the Circle Held
The voice that answered back
The first time I was here, something happened—something I’ve told and retold over the years, depending on the occasion. It stayed with me like a stamped seal on an official document. Each time I return to it, at least one previously hidden detail reveals itself. And now, as we inch closer again, I wonder what will surface this time as the memory opens, page by page, like a book.
It was December. Unusually cold for Istanbul. There were two of us—my brother and me. I wanted to show him the city, and afterward, introduce him to the sheikh. He hesitated for a long time before finally giving in.
“I’m not really a tekke kind of guy,” he kept saying. “Leave me out of that.”
“Just come and see,” I told him. “These lodges aren’t like the ones back home. There’s something to see here.”
And I was right.
We were sitting against the wall, sipping tea. Around us, people talked cheerfully through clouds of smoke. Somewhere in the background, the ney was playing. Just as I reached for my cigarette, the dervish at the door signaled that the sheikh was coming.
Everyone jumped to their feet. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Silence fell. For a moment, only the wailing sound of the ney remained—until even that was cut short.
The room was packed, like a pomegranate bursting with seeds. Mostly men with gray beards stood motionless: one hand over the heart, the other across the waist, eyes lowered toward the tips of their feet. They returned the greeting in unison. The sheikh passed through without us even seeing him. Only after we sat did I notice him kneeling at the front, solemn, stroking his nearly orange beard. He scanned the room—and when he saw us, he smiled.
“Peace be upon you. Welcome. And it’s good you brought your brother,” he said.
My brother looked at me, startled. How did he know? Who told him?
“Tonight,” the sheikh continued, his tone growing grave, “we have a special guest. A sister who has been afflicted by jinn. She has traveled half the world seeking a cure. No ruqyah reader helped her. No imam. No sheikh. She called me a few days ago, begging to come. The night before, I dreamed I was fighting a pack of wolves on a mountain. In the dream, I saw a woman whose face was covered by a black veil—a shepherdess. When this sister arrived today, wearing a black headscarf, I recognized her.”
He paused.
“And one more thing—so you’re not surprised. When she entered the house, every electrical device stopped working.”
“Sit in the circle. When we begin the zikr, do not open your eyes. If you do, whatever happens is on you.”
My brother nudged me with his elbow, his eyes asking if we should leave. I shook my head.
“Tell her to come in,” the sheikh ordered. “Make space for her in the center. Bring her tea. And water. She’ll need it.”
The woman entered—no older than forty. She greeted us and sat where the sheikh pointed. In the middle.
“Alright, sister,” he said gently. “We’ll proceed as I explained. With God’s help, we’ll try to resolve this tonight. You didn’t hear of me or this lodge by accident. God sent you here. Everything will be fine. Don’t be afraid.”
“When we begin the zikr, listen carefully. Be loud. With love. Let the roof tiles crack. Is that clear? If anyone wants to leave, now is the time. Once we start, the circle does not break.”
No one among the regulars hesitated. Some adjusted themselves. Others brought instruments—frame drums, darbukas. A few quietly stood and left without turning their backs to the sheikh. He greeted them kindly.
“Is that everyone?” he asked. “Anyone else leaving?”
My brother looked at me again.
“Stay,” I said. “Just don’t open your eyes.”
“You owe me for this,” he muttered.
The lights dimmed. The zikr began softly. We swayed side to side, following the rhythm of the drums and the sheikh’s voice. As the tempo quickened, so did our voices.
“Louder,” the sheikh commanded. “Louder.”
It felt as though not only the roof tiles but the entire building was shaking. One voice. A hundred souls.
And then—within all that—I heard something else. A second voice. Unlike ours. Unlike anything human. Not a scream. Not a cry. Not a wail. A sound without shape. A hieroglyph of growling—like a cornered beast.
That’s why we don’t open our eyes, I thought. I squeezed my eyelids shut and grabbed my brother’s hand.
“Who is your God?” the sheikh asked.
The voice answered—from inside the woman. Cold sweat ran down my spine. I opened my eyes.
She was on the floor, eyes wide open. Her mouth hung open, yet her lips did not move. Only the voice spoke. A language no one understood. Her hands clawed at the green carpet, leaving red streaks behind.
“Who is your God?” the sheikh demanded again.
The voice replied—in another language. Then another. I recognized Greek. Then something that sounded like Mandarin—or maybe Japanese, slicing the air like a blade.
Finally, it spoke a language I understood.
“What business is it of yours who my God is?”
“What is your name?” the sheikh thundered.
“I’ll never tell you, you faggot. Never. Do you hear me? Never.”
“You will,” the sheikh said calmly. “You just don’t know it yet.”
The exchange raged on as we continued the zikr—exhausted, possessed by fear or ecstasy. At the sheikh’s command, we grew louder.
“There is no god but God,” I whispered inside myself while shouting the words aloud. God, help her. Help me. Let me survive this with my mind intact.
“She is mine,” the voice said, slower now, deeper. “She was mine before her father was conceived. Before her mother walked the earth. She is my peace. My circle.”
“You have no peace,” the sheikh replied. “No circle. Not while you are inside her.”
“And if I leave?” the voice asked, cracking—laughing or crying. “Where would I go? Into fire? Into nothingness?”
“I know your name,” the sheikh said loudly. “Ashmadai.”
Someone behind me sobbed.
“Ashmadai,” the sheikh continued. “I ask you one last time. Who is your God?”
The woman convulsed. Her body arched like a bow pulled to breaking. Her neck flushed red.
“God… God is… Allah is God… Allah…”
“Leave her,” the sheikh commanded.
“I won’t,” the voice whimpered. “I love her.”
“Love that suffocates is not love,” the sheikh said. “Love that enslaves is not love. Leave her, Ashmadai. In the name of God, the Most Merciful.”
A final scream—then silence.
My eyes opened on their own. She lay still.
“Sister,” the sheikh said softly. “Are you here?”
She opened her eyes. This time—her eyes.
“I am,” she whispered.
And she wept.