At the center of the square, the zurna let out a piercing, high-pitched wail that sliced through the evening air. It was the signal. The "Cida" was beginning.
"Slowly now," Ali whispered, his shoulders squared. They moved in unison, three steps right, a slight kick, a rhythmic sway. The dust began to rise around their boots. Oyun HavalarД± Cida (HД±zlД± Halay)
The circle tightened and spun faster. The shoulders of the men moved in a synchronized shimmer, a blur of white shirts and dark vests. The elders watched from the sidelines, their eyes gleaming as they remembered their own days at the head of the line. For a few intense minutes, time didn't exist. There was only the scream of the reed, the thunder of the drum, and the frantic, rhythmic pounding of feet against the ancient earth. At the center of the square, the zurna
The pace doubled. The line of dancers didn't just move; they surged. Their bodies became a single, undulating wave of energy. Ali felt the sweat prickling his brow, but he didn't feel fatigue. The rhythm of the Cida took over his limbs. Every time the drum crashed, the dancers let out a collective "Hah!"—a shout of defiance and joy that echoed off the stone walls of the houses. "Slowly now," Ali whispered, his shoulders squared