For the history and existence of the Jewish and Muslim community on the Iberian peninsula, the year 1492 signifies a radical cesura. After the successful military action, which brought to an end the Muslim rule, a process of dislocation and displacement had happened, resulting in multiples journeys across the medieval world. At the same time, it was the year in which the Alhambra Decree against the Jews was issued, forcing the community into a massive exile to Italy, the Balkans and the Ottoman Empire. However, as this is not a historical text, it does not convey an accurate testimony of the past but rather oscillates between fact and fiction, weaving words with images and switching perspectives. The third person voices gets transformed into a soliloquy traveling into the psychic landscape of the protagonist. But, who is the protagonist of this narrative? Where do we meet him and how did he arrive there? 

Born under the slow sign of Saturn in a small fishing village, the boy had struggled to match his melancholy with the Mediterranean rhythm. Unlike his peers, who spent their days unwillingly sitting in maktab and listening to the imam, Suleyman was burning to receive illumination and wisdom from books written by scholars such as Al-Kindi, Ibn-Rushd or Ibn-Khaldun. For days, he would sit on the shores of the sea, speculating about the motion of the stars and the macrocosm mirroring in the lower world of matter and time. He is obsessed with the fractures and wounds which make the perfect harmony impossible. The world in his mind is composed of tiny traces and fragile scriptures; an enigmatic order of signs that brings into the existence the visible reality of things and events. The chaos of history unfolds as an assemblage of catastrophes. The book of creation is   overwritten it with undecipherable notations. A palimpsest of delayed gestures hidden in abandoned walls.

While the blooming culture of Jews and Muslims would come to an end in west, in the south-east of Europe the Ottoman empire was on the rise. After sultan Mehmed II had defeated the Byzantine army conquering Constantinople in 1453, the final days of the Roman empire had arrived and the Ottoman culture and rule spread over the Balkans. As it is always the case with wars and violent downfall of regimes, the occupation  caused Byzantine scholars, philosophers and Orthodox theologians to move to the west. In Venice and Florence they would set the stsge for the rediscovery of Greek and Hellenistic culture and religion. At the same time, it will be here where the neoplatonic ideas will mix with the tradition of the Cabala and metaphysics of the wandering Muslim mystics who were running away from the sharp blades of the Spanish reconquista. 

Suleyman was only 10 years old when he lost his parents on a stormy night which devoured the ship that was crossing the Gibraltar from Tangier to Tarifa. After receiving the news, the uncle sent the orphan boy to a dervish fraternity that was living in the mountains and practicing ascetic contemplation. Suleyman passionately studies the Quran, discussing with the others the logos of light and the eternal fight against the dark powers who dwell in the abyss of ignorance, sin and gluttony. Living in isolation and thus removed from the social and political reality, the brothers did not notice that the Catholic knights were on the move. After they had burned down their old mosque killing almost everyone, Suleyman had to flee. In his whirling visions he saw a golden dome. It could be entered by one of the gates on the east, but only if you can conjure the true name of God and pass the guardian angel sitting on the left shoulder.

Andrej Mircev, Jewish Graveyard in Tangier

I walked for days, sleeping for a few minutes not to get attacked by wild animals or outlaws hiding in the woods and waiting for their prey. When Venus started rising, and the horizon began to glow, I continued my journey towards the Orient. Allah guides my steps and protects me from the evil spirits lurking at the crossroads in every corner of my soul. The walking becomes my prayer. It moves me closer to the light and the eternal dawn where I will leave this body’s ruins. I am somewhere on the no-man’s land. Five hundred years later, this will be the border between Serbia and Macedonia, another territory torn by war and unresolved conflicts about identity and religion. The mosque is in the middle of the field. It was built by Kodža Mehmet Beg in 1380, and it is considered the oldest Sunni building of this type in the Balkans. Meanwhile, the roof of the minaret has collapsed. Framed by a circle, you can see the moving clouds and the motion of the stars. I am walking down the Via Egnatia, the old road connecting Rome with Constantinople. 

Somewhere in the middle of the road the exiled dervish reaches Lychnidos, the city of light. With 365 churches around the lake and several mosques, people call it the “Jerusalem of the Balkans.” Near the ancient plane tree, where he spent the night praying and fasting during the full moon, the Zeynel Abedin Pasha tekke will be built in the 16th century. It will become the centre of the Halveti dervish order and for centuries it had been an important spiritual pilgrimage site. In the garden, the founder of the order, şeyh Mehmed Hayati, had built a turbe in which he and other leaders of the order are buried. Today, especially on Fridays when the sun reaches the zenith, one can hear the voice of the imam calling for the prayer. 

I am restless. Like the stars in the firmament. I keep moving. Following the duties of the heart, I am crossing the mountains and the sea. After all the years following the vision of the golden light, I will arrive soon. Of the three brothers with whom I went into the exile and who were the only ones to survive the destruction of our tekke in Spain, I am the only one left. Sometimes, I get lost in the desert of my desire but then their ghostly dance in the sky brings me back to the right path. Angelic is my poverty. The worn out garments and rags bring me closer to the Glory.  

When he arrived to Jerusalem, the city walls were still not built but Suleyman the Great had already established the Ottoman rule over Judea in 1517. The dervish enters the town through the Damascus gate on a windy sabbath. Although he has never been here, he navigates well through the narrow streets of the old quarters. It reminds him of his hometown that he had to flee years ago and, suddenly, he gets overwhelmed by a melancholic feeling of ephemerality. As if life stands still and the past comes back as a fragile image without frames. This intensifies as he gets to the Muslim graveyard outside of the walls. A Franciscan monk in the Holy Sepulcher Church once said, that this was built to make the sacred site unclean and prevent the arrival of the Messiah. But he was wrong, the anointed one draws no boundaries and knows no territories. 

Before sunrise, I am ready to step into the Temple of Gold. During the dawn prayer, two angels descend from the seven heavens. Like in Jakob´s vision, they climb the ladder connecting the earth with the higher spheres where spirits abide in the primordial light above the Crown. All these sleepless nights of displacement, cold mornings lost in the fog, and hot afternoons of thirst and deserted steps brought me here, to the farthest place of prayer. In silence, the sun will rise in splendor of the spring equinox. The day equates the night in the eternal polarity between the Ram and the Scales of Justice. On the altar, the high priest is slaughtering a black lamb. The drops of blood fall on the dry earth, creating an eerie echo that mixes with the song of the birds in the temple. The southern wind rises, carrying the scarlet scent of souls lost in exile. We chant their names and are filled with the boundless illumination emanating from Beauty.

Andrej Mircev, As above so below

Editing: Noa Shuval