The central doctrine of Sufism, sometimes called Wahdat or Unity, is the understanding of Tawhid: all phenomena are manifestations of a single reality, or Wujud (being), or al-Haq (Truth, God). The essence of being/Truth/God is devoid of every form and quality, and hence unmanifested, yet it is inseparable from every form and phenomenon either material or spiritual. It is often understood to imply that every phenomenon is an aspect of Truth and at the same time attribution of existence to it is false. The chief aim of all Sufis then is to let go of all notions of duality, therefore the individual self also, and realize the divine unity.
Sufis teach in personal groups, believing the interaction of the master is necessary for the growth of the pupil. They make extensive use of parable, allegory, and metaphor, and it is held by Sufis that meaning can only be reached through a process of seeking the truth, and knowledge of oneself. Although philosophies vary between different Sufi orders, Sufism as a whole is primarily concerned with direct personal experience, and as such may be compared to various forms of mysticism such as Zen Buddhism and Gnosticism.
The following metaphor, credited to an unknown Sufi scholar, helps describe this line of thought.
There are three ways of knowing a thing. Take for instance a flame. One can be told of the flame, one can see the flame with his own eyes, and finally one can reach out and be burned by it. In this way, we Sufis seek to be burned by God.

Images provided by Murat Kirbaçoglu

The highly acclaimed Mevlana Rumi biography by Mohamed el-Fers is out now in a special limited English edition.

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My first encounter with a Mevlânâ dervish was in the death of the night in front of the Istanbul Blue Mosque of Sultan Ahmed. From far I heard the melancholic sound of a flute. In front of the Mosque a troop of meagre street dogs.
Everywhere in old Istanbul you see those skinny streetdogs. Thousands of dogs are living in the streets. At daytime they are lying on the ground, sly, lazy, lively, flea-bitten and battle-scarred they try to sleep in the chaos of this huge metropole. Then they don't show any interest, not even for in the many cats that walk around.
But at night stray dogs can create havoc in Istanbul. They form howling and quarrelling groups who scavenged in the streets. If you collided with them, you better press yourself to the wall. People riding two wheelers could met serious accidents.
Sultan Mahmut II, who finished off the Janissaries in 1826, had also the dogs swept off the streets of Istanbul. They were not, like his elitecorps bluntly massacred, but shipped out to an island in the Sea of Marmara. By 1918 the dogs of Istanbul were rounded up again. Some of them escaped, as the filfthy beasts in front of the Blue Mosque proved. They laid quit and one came wagging to me. It was the dog that I saw sometimes down the railway where I lived. Pitied by the poor appearance of that bitch, I sometimes threw leftovers of the food from my balcony her direction. But never came close. Now her wet nose pushed gentil my hand. The other dogs laid as drugged. No bark was heard as long as the flute sounded. The player smiled and nodded me to sit down.
When I later accounted the meeting, I learned the fluteplayer was a regular on the steps of the Mosque of Sultan Ahmed. And that I should take care.
But is was such a friendly man with the peace in his eyes.
It was not so much the guy, but what he was. Or should I say, not should be?
He was a Mevlevi, a follower of Mevlânâ Rumi…
So, what harm could he do? Mevlânâ Rumi lived eight centuries ago. What the hell was wrong with the founder of the Whirling Dervishes?
He was a Sufi, a mystic…
Was that why even the streetdogs were at ease near him?
You better take care with this kind of people.
But why?
Did't he wear his hat?
No.

Fragment from the Mevlânâ biography of Mohamed el-Fers.