{"id":17385,"date":"2026-10-06T13:44:58","date_gmt":"2026-10-06T13:44:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/reflections-persian-poetry-sufism-search-for-meaning\/"},"modified":"2026-10-06T13:44:58","modified_gmt":"2026-10-06T13:44:58","slug":"reflections-persian-poetry-sufism-search-for-meaning","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/reflections-persian-poetry-sufism-search-for-meaning\/","title":{"rendered":"Reflections on Persian Poetry, Sufism, and the Search for Meaning"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
Interview with Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7<\/em><\/strong><\/h5>\n\n\n\n

Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7<\/a> is a Turkish author, musician, and practitioner of Sufi philosophy whose work bridges classical spiritual traditions and modern life. Through his writings on Sufism and his performances on the ney, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 has reached a global audience, drawing on the wisdom of Rumi, Hafez, and Saadi to explore the themes of compassion, self-discovery, and inner peace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In this extensive conversation, Meng\u00fc\u00e7<\/a> discusses his recent travels through Iran, the enduring presence of poetry in everyday Persian life, and the lessons taught by love, silence, and nature. What follows is a reflective dialogue on the art of becoming and learning to live with life’s unanswered questions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reflections on Iran, Sufism, and the Art of Becoming<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

For Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7, spirituality is less a matter of arriving at definitive answers than of learning how to remain present to the questions that shape a life. A musician, writer, and teacher of Sufi thought, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 approaches the inner life through poetry, music, travel, silence, love, and the everyday encounters that reveal something of who we are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His connection to Persian culture is rooted in a deep engagement with the poetry of Rumi, Saadi, and Hafez. During his journey through Iran, he encountered not only the country’s literary heritage but also a culture in which poetry, as he describes it, continues to live beyond books\u2014in conversations, homes, memories, and ordinary moments. His reflections raise a broader question: what happens when poetry and spirituality are not simply subjects we study but ways of seeing and inhabiting the world?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In this conversation, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 reflects on dreams, earthly and divine love, the lessons animals can teach us about compassion and acceptance, and what travel has taught him about trust and human connection. He also speaks about silence and the ney, describing how playing the instrument can alter his sense of time and draw him into a deeper experience of the present.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n
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\n

Yet perhaps the most revealing moments come when certainty falls away. After years of exploring spirituality, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 acknowledges that some truths can be understood intellectually while remaining difficult for the heart to accept. Among them is a question that has no easy answer: why must we lose the people and things we love?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What emerges is not a conversation about spirituality as a system of answers, but as a way of living with mystery\u2014of becoming less attached to certainty, more attentive to the present, and more willing to listen to what remains unanswered.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

What understanding of the human being and of life resonates with you most deeply in Persian poetry and the Sufi tradition?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“It is deeply meaningful to hear from you in Tehran. Iran is not only a land that has given birth to great poets; it is also an ancient memory in which poetry still speaks from within life itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What touches me most in Persian poetry and Sufism is the understanding that the human being is not a finished creature but a traveller in a continual state of becoming. We do not enter the world having already found ourselves; we shape who we are by living, loving, losing, and, at times, losing our way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Sufism, the human being is compared to a mirror. Yet this mirror gathers dust over time. Our fears, ambitions, resentments, and expectations make it harder for us to see the truth. The purpose of the journey is not to become someone else but to release, one by one, what has been added to us and remember what has always lived at our core.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is why the thought that moves me most is this: we are not separate from the truth we seek. Sometimes, what we spend a lifetime searching for outside ourselves is finally found in the silence of our own heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The figures who have influenced me most are, first and foremost, Rumi, Saadi of Shiraz, and Hafez”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What has remained most deeply in your mind and heart from your journey to Iran?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“When I think of Iran, before any particular city or monument, a feeling arises in me: poetry is still alive there. In some places, poetry remains inside books. In Iran, you feel that it continues to live in people’s conversations, their glances, their homes, and their everyday lives. During my journey through Iran, I was especially moved by Tehran, Isfahan, and Tabriz”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What was one moment during your time in Iran\u2014a conversation, encounter, place, or even a small everyday scene\u2014that made you feel how deeply poetry is woven into everyday life there?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“One of the moments that stayed with me most in Tehran was when I was walking through an area filled with bookstores. I spoke with several booksellers, and there was something about the way they spoke, their tone of voice, and the way they answered questions that left a very warm impression on me. You could feel that literature was not something that simply remained inside books for them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Later, I was invited into the homes of several Iranian families. I was deeply touched by their interest in the Masnavi and by the fact that almost everyone seemed to know poetry by heart. Sometimes we speak of poetry as part of a culture, but in Iran I felt that poetry was still truly living within everyday life. I think this is one of the strongest impressions Iran left on me: poetry is not only something people read there; it is something they speak, remember, and carry within them”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How do you understand dreams? Have they influenced the path of your life?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“I do not see dreams merely as mysterious signs that foretell the future. To me, dreams are what begin to speak at night after we have silenced them during the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our minds are very noisy in daylight. Amid everything we must do, our fears, our responsibilities, and other people’s expectations of us, we cannot hear the subtle voice within. When we sleep, the mind loosens its watch a little, and the images held by the heart begin to emerge. Sometimes dreams also show us a direction. If we are able to understand them, they can offer us profound insight”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Can the pain of earthly love lead a person toward a deeper understanding of love?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“In the stories of Zuleikha and of Layla and Majnun, love does not begin as a feeling that brings comfort. On the contrary, it disrupts the order a person knows. It reveals who they are, what they are attached to and what they fear losing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do not believe earthly love and divine love are enemies. Sometimes a person begins with a visible beauty and arrives at an unseen truth. But for that to happen, love must become more than the desire to possess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pain can transform us, not simply because it breaks the heart, but because it opens a passage through the walls around it. Through that opening, we begin to see ourselves, other people, and the fragility of life more deeply. And light often enters through the wound”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How do you view the relationship between humans and animals? Is this understanding reflected in your diet and way of life?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“I believe compassion remains incomplete when it is directed only toward human beings. Compassion is the ability to feel another creature’s pain without first asking which species it belongs to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Animals are not objects created merely to meet our needs; they are living beings with whom we share this world. They, too, have fears, bonds, habits, and a way of being that is uniquely their own. Anyone who forms a genuine relationship with an animal comes to see that it is not made of instinct alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am also one of those who believe that a person who cannot form a warm bond with animals will struggle to form one with human beings as well”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What experiences with animals have shaped your understanding of compassion and acceptance?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“I have been surrounded by animals since I was a child. One of the most beautiful things about animals is that they have no prejudice. They accept you as you are. But if you want to form a genuine bond with them, you also have to learn to accept them as they are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For example, you cannot force a cat to behave the way you want. You begin to understand its character, its boundaries, the way it approaches you, and the way it withdraws. I think many conflicts between people begin at exactly this point. Instead of seeing the other person as they are, we try to change them. And when they do not change, we become angry, disappointed, or distant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is why I believe animals teach us not only compassion but also acceptance. Sometimes they become very beautiful teachers to us, and they do it without saying a single word”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How did travelling with very limited means change your understanding of humanity and trust?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“When you travel with very little, you step beyond the protection of your possessions. You cannot plan everything in advance or control every possibility. That is when you begin to encounter life directly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On journeys like these, the people who helped me most were often complete strangers. Although we did not speak the same language or grow up in the same culture, an invisible bond formed between us. One person showed me the way, another shared a meal, and someone else helped me reach a safe place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\n

These experiences taught me that trust is not naivety. Trust does not mean ignoring danger; it means refusing to see every human being only through the eyes of our fear. Books can tell us about humanity. But when a stranger offers you kindness without expecting anything in return, what you know about humanity stops being information and becomes experience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

True travel is not simply moving from one place to another. It is stepping beyond our own prejudices. We may cross thousands of miles, yet the greatest distance is crossed the moment we stop seeing a stranger as separate from ourselves”.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Is there a film or filmmaker connected with Iranian cinema that has particularly moved you?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“One of the films that has moved me most is Bab’Aziz. On the surface, it appears to be a journey across the desert; in truth, it tells of the journey a person makes into the depths of the self.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The serenity of Bab’Aziz, the blind dervish at the heart of the film, reminds me that sometimes we see more deeply with the heart than with the eyes. The silence of the desert, the music, and the encounters along the way, suggest that life is not merely a destination to be reached, but a state of being we are called to understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bab’Aziz carries one of the most beautiful truths of Sufism: we do not approach truth by rushing, but by slowing down. We do not have to know everything; sometimes we must learn to walk with trust along a path we do not yet understand. To me, true art does not take questions from our hands and replace them with answers; it leaves us with deeper questions. Long after Bab’Aziz<\/em> ends, it continues as a silence within us”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What place does silence hold in your life?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“For me, silence is not the absence of speech; it is the beginning of another language. When people speak constantly, they often imagine they are expressing themselves. Yet sometimes speaking is the easiest way to escape from ourselves. In silence, there is nowhere left to run. We meet our fears, our longings, and the unanswered questions within us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I feel this when I play the ney as well. Music is shaped not only by sound but also by the spaces between sounds. Without those spaces, what we hear would not be music, but noise. Life is the same. Our pauses, our silences, and our seasons of waiting are part of its rhythm”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The “ney” is often associated with longing and separation in Sufi thought. When you play it, what do you personally experience\u2014what changes in you, even for a moment?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“When I play the ney, my sense of time changes. Sometimes I even feel as though time completely stops. For a while, the past and the future lose their importance, and only the present moment remains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In that moment, I somehow feel the present, eternity, and nothingness all at once. It is not easy to explain this in words. For me, the ney is not simply an instrument that I play. Sometimes it becomes a way of stepping away from myself and entering a deeper silence. Perhaps that is why, when I play the ney, I do not feel that I am expressing myself so much as becoming less of myself”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How can we honor the past and move forward without becoming trapped in it?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“We cannot erase our past completely, nor do we need to. The past is made not only of the pain we have experienced but also of every encounter that has shaped the person we are today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet honoring the past does not mean continuing to live there. You may respect a teacher, but you do not remain seated in the same classroom for the rest of your life. The past is the same: it teaches us something, then asks us to continue on our way. Letting go does not mean forgetting. You may never forget someone, but you can stop allowing their absence to govern your present. You can feel compassion for who you once were without building your life around the fears of that former self.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Often, we are not holding on to what happened in the past but to what we wish had happened. Healing begins when we accept that we cannot change what has already taken place. There is a great difference between carrying the past with us and being carried by it. The past may offer direction, but it should not take the wheel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes the doors of life are not locked from the outside. We cannot open the new door because our hand is still resting on the handle of the old one. Transformation does not mean denying the past; it means thanking it and gently lifting our hand from the door”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After years of exploring spirituality, what is something about life that you still cannot fully understand\u2014not as a spiritual idea, but as a human being?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“As the years pass, I have come to understand something more clearly: there are things we can understand intellectually, yet still struggle to accept emotionally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For example, we may find philosophical explanations for why we lose the people we love, why some people endure such great suffering, or why life can sometimes appear so unjust. Sufism also offers many answers to these questions. But when you are simply a human being, there are moments when everything you know becomes silent in the face of certain questions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One thing I still cannot fully understand is why we have to lose the people and things we love. Perhaps this is simply the nature of life. Everything comes, and everything passes. My mind understands this. But the heart does not always accept it as easily as the mind does. Perhaps part of being human is exactly this: continuing to live without having all the answers”.<\/p>\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Interview with Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7 Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7 is a Turkish author, musician, and practitioner of Sufi philosophy whose work bridges classical spiritual traditions and modern life. Through his writings on Sufism and his performances on the ney, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 has reached a global audience, drawing on the wisdom of Rumi, Hafez, and Saadi to explore the themes of compassion, self-discovery, and inner peace. In this extensive conversation, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 discusses his recent travels through Iran, the enduring presence of poetry in everyday Persian life, and the lessons taught by love, silence, and nature. What follows is a reflective dialogue on the art of becoming and learning to live with life’s unanswered questions. Reflections on Iran, Sufism, and the Art of Becoming For Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7, spirituality is less a matter of arriving at definitive answers than of learning how to remain present to the questions that shape a life. A musician, writer, and teacher of Sufi thought, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 approaches the inner life through poetry, music, travel, silence, love, and the everyday encounters that reveal something of who we are. His connection to Persian culture is rooted in a deep engagement with the poetry of Rumi, Saadi, and Hafez. During his journey through Iran, he encountered not only the country’s literary heritage but also a culture in which poetry, as he describes it, continues to live beyond books\u2014in conversations, homes, memories, and ordinary moments. His reflections raise a broader question: what happens when poetry and spirituality are not simply subjects we study but ways of seeing and inhabiting the world? In this conversation, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 reflects on dreams, earthly and divine love, the lessons animals can teach us about compassion and acceptance, and what travel has taught him about trust and human connection. He also speaks about silence and the ney, describing how playing the instrument can alter his sense of time and draw him into a deeper experience of the present. Yet perhaps the most revealing moments come when certainty falls away. After years of exploring spirituality, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 acknowledges that some truths can be understood intellectually while remaining difficult for the heart to accept. Among them is a question that has no easy answer: why must we lose the people and things we love? What emerges is not a conversation about spirituality as a system of answers, but as a way of living with mystery\u2014of becoming less attached to certainty, more attentive to the present, and more willing to listen to what remains unanswered. What understanding of the human being and of life resonates with you most deeply in Persian poetry and the Sufi tradition? “It is deeply meaningful to hear from you in Tehran. Iran is not only a land that has given birth to great poets; it is also an ancient memory in which poetry still speaks from within life itself. What touches me most in Persian poetry and Sufism is the understanding that the human being is not a finished creature but a traveller in a continual state of becoming. We do not enter the world having already found ourselves; we shape who we are by living, loving, losing, and, at times, losing our way. In Sufism, the human being is compared to a mirror. Yet this mirror gathers dust over time. Our fears, ambitions, resentments, and expectations make it harder for us to see the truth. The purpose of the journey is not to become someone else but to release, one by one, what has been added to us and remember what has always lived at our core. This is why the thought that moves me most is this: we are not separate from the truth we seek. Sometimes, what we spend a lifetime searching for outside ourselves is finally found in the silence of our own heart. The figures who have influenced me most are, first and foremost, Rumi, Saadi of Shiraz, and Hafez”. What has remained most deeply in your mind and heart from your journey to Iran? “When I think of Iran, before any particular city or monument, a feeling arises in me: poetry is still alive there. In some places, poetry remains inside books. In Iran, you feel that it continues to live in people’s conversations, their glances, their homes, and their everyday lives. During my journey through Iran, I was especially moved by Tehran, Isfahan, and Tabriz”. What was one moment during your time in Iran\u2014a conversation, encounter, place, or even a small everyday scene\u2014that made you feel how deeply poetry is woven into everyday life there? “One of the moments that stayed with me most in Tehran was when I was walking through an area filled with bookstores. I spoke with several booksellers, and there was something about the way they spoke, their tone of voice, and the way they answered questions that left a very warm impression on me. You could feel that literature was not something that simply remained inside books for them. Later, I was invited into the homes of several Iranian families. I was deeply touched by their interest in the Masnavi and by the fact that almost everyone seemed to know poetry by heart. Sometimes we speak of poetry as part of a culture, but in Iran I felt that poetry was still truly living within everyday life. I think this is one of the strongest impressions Iran left on me: poetry is not only something people read there; it is something they speak, remember, and carry within them”. How do you understand dreams? Have they influenced the path of your life? “I do not see dreams merely as mysterious signs that foretell the future. To me, dreams are what begin to speak at night after we have silenced them during the day. Our minds are very noisy in daylight. Amid everything we must do, our fears, our responsibilities, and other people’s expectations of us, we cannot hear the subtle voice within. When we sleep, the mind loosens its watch a little, and the images held by the heart<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":92,"featured_media":17369,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[523,416,483],"tags":[712,422],"class_list":["post-17385","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-culture","category-human","category-journeys","tag-art-2","tag-silat_wassel-en"],"blocksy_meta":{"styles_descriptor":{"styles":{"desktop":"","tablet":"","mobile":""},"google_fonts":[],"version":8}},"rttpg_featured_image_url":{"full":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie.png",1920,1080,false],"landscape":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie.png",1920,1080,false],"portraits":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie.png",1920,1080,false],"thumbnail":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie-150x150.png",150,150,true],"medium":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie-300x169.png",300,169,true],"large":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie-1024x576.png",1024,576,true],"1536x1536":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie-1536x864.png",1536,864,true],"2048x2048":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Websie.png",1920,1080,false]},"rttpg_author":{"display_name":"\u0634\u064a\u0641\u0627 \u0627\u062e\u0627\u0641\u0627\u0646","author_link":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/author\/shiva-akhavan\/"},"rttpg_comment":0,"rttpg_category":"Culture<\/a> Human<\/a> Journeys<\/a>","rttpg_excerpt":"Interview with Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7 Hakan Meng\u00fc\u00e7 is a Turkish author, musician, and practitioner of Sufi philosophy whose work bridges classical spiritual traditions and modern life. Through his writings on Sufism and his performances on the ney, Meng\u00fc\u00e7 has reached a global audience, drawing on the wisdom of Rumi, Hafez, and Saadi to explore the themes…","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17385","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/92"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17385"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17385\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17369"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17385"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17385"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17385"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}