Hızır Gecesi, Night of Hızır

Ours is a land of mystics, I have come to learn, where everything is fluid and open to interpretation.

Growing up, whenever I asked, “how is this made, mama?” I never got a straight answer. “Watch and learn,” I was told. When I asked, “why are you laughing? What’s so funny?” I’d be told “it’s not funny in Turkish”. If I asked, “when were you born, baba?” he’d give the vague yet specific answer: “it must have been spring because they say the chickpea fields were in bloom”.

I came to learn that it is in this fluidity that we have survived. We Alevis, Kurds; we are a spiritual and ethnic minority in Turkey, who have been exposed to the arduous elements of oppression, migration and time across geographies. Our survival has relied on our ability to be elusive and transformative; to be able turn every aspect of our lives into a story – a story good enough to outlast the journey between hands over time, and yet also withstand the translation that may co-opt, harm or erode.

Stories are a vivid and integral tenet of my family, while everything around us feels elusive and ungraspable. And just like in the elephant fable, I grew to learn the art of translating, transcribing, uncovering, holding on, and reimagining stories of an identity, a homeland, and a language I did not know, through my hands. To be able to decode the riddles hidden in the folds of a fable, you must accept to be a forever student. Food, communal meals, and recipes are steeped in ritual and story; to be seated around a spread or a table together is a space of spiritual communing.

The night of Hızır is one such space. Hızır is known by many names: ’the mystic teacher of prophets’, ‘the verdant one’, ‘the guide’. For three days in mid-February, Alevis fast. Simplicity is the main tenet of those days. Nothing is consumed from sunrise to sunset, and we set a ‘niyet’ – an intention – to reflect on throughout the fast. We call upon Hızır to visit us as we break our fast to bring clarity to our meditations and to grant our hopes. Falling a month before Newroz, the start of spring, which we mark as our new year, the timing of Hızır Gecesi is potent and precious – it sees the days begin to outlast the nights. Landing on the same day that is widely celebrated now as Valentines Day, I reflect every year that for me there is no greater act of love than this gathering.

While intention setting and fasting are solitary acts, the breaking of the fast is a gathering. We all bear witness to each other and hope our intentions are clarified and granted that night, ahead of spring’s arrival. Glora Sir or Babuko or Zerfetare all names for the humble dish eaten on this day, across Anatolia and further east, where Alevis reside.

The eldest in each family makes the Kömbe, a large dense wheel of bread with a very hard crust. In our home, this is my mother’s role. She always hides something in the bread, often an olive, and prays that the one to find the olive will be blessed for the year ahead. I once found the olive and had a terrible year, so it’s become an inside joke in our family to avoid the olive.

The Kömbe is brought to the table hot and broken into pieces by everyone seated around it. Everyone must be involved, everyone must have a hand in breaking the bread. It’s not actually that easy to break this bread – the crust is thick and rock hard, while the dense crumb releases hot steam as you pry it open. We move swiftly, blowing heartily, our hands all dancing in quick procession – picking up the bread, tossing it between hands, breaking, blowing and placing each piece in a single large bowl at the centre of the table. Together, we create a heap, a mountain of broken bread.

Then comes the hot ayran infused with garlic, which we pour over the bread mountain. The bread absorbs the liquid and takes on its flavour. And finally, the butter. Melted, frothing butter is poured on top, trickling down the sides of the mound and marbling at the bottom in the pool of ayran – sanctified by a satisfying sizzle, as the butter clashes with it. This sizzle is the signal that it’s ready to eat. All those who have fasted for three days feel justified in eating this dense, indulgent dish. For some at the table, their ‘niyet’ might have simply been to eat Babuko.

We eat with our hands, from the same bowl. Picking the pieces that have soaked up the juices but still have a crust to hold onto. Around the common dish, hands continue to dance. Picking a piece, giving it a final dip in the pool of marbled ayran and butter, now salted with burnt sediment, before taking a bite. Around the table, the act of sharing lightens the mood even when some don’t stay in their allocated part of the bowl. Sometimes, a bowl of komposto is served with the Babuko – this is a cold, sweet, soupy conserve made from dried apricots and raisins, which cuts across the heavy Sir. I love the contrast and that it helps me eat more.

We break our fast with hope that Hızır will visit us in our dreams and bring us a cup of water to quench our thirst. This is the sign that he has replenished us and sealed our intention. Some believe if you are unmarried, it might be your future love who visits you in your dreams to quench your thirst. If you wish for this visit you must refrain from drinking water when you break your fast… But what unnecessary torture! What if no one visits? I for one don’t withhold from drinking (but I hope Hızır visits anyway).

Hızır appears and disappears across lands and beliefs – as an angel, a prophet or a wise one, called upon in times of need. Al-Khidr in Arabic meaning ‘the green or verdant one’ because it is said that green pastures grew where he sits. Much like the Alevis, he is an elusive figure; syncretic, fluid, and mystical. The ritual is a reminder that your spirituality and devotion is horizontal – it exists between you and the people you gather around you.

In Alevism the word ‘hakk’ is pivotal: it means truth, but it also means the divine. We humbly surrender to the knowledge that truth cannot be attained, and that the divinity lies in the attempt to reach it. I have come to learn that there is freedom and autonomy in this surrender: the acceptance I will not have clarity or know everything about my history, my people, my language or my land. But my wholeness comes from the grace of filling those vast spaces with our stories, our recipes, and our songs. There lies humility and presence; there lies consciousness and testimony; there lies acceptance and kindness. May Hızır visit you too and quench the vast spaces between knowing and not knowing.

Melek Erdal is an Alevi Kurdish writer, cook, and multi-disciplinary storyteller exploring themes around community, identity and resilient joy. Istanbul-born, east-London-raised, Melek’s recipes, voice, and words have featured in the Guardian, on BBC Radio 4, and in her column in Vittles. She was Fortnum and Mason Cookery Writer of the Year in 2024.