At the Dance Hall

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

In “Volga Grad,” we also ventured into the dance hall, accompanied by the esteemed Russian general assigned to us. This entertainment might have been an unexpected addition to our scheduled visit. The dance hall spanned two floors: the upper floor was more expensive, offering superior service, and its patrons exuded a sense of decorum and sophistication. In contrast, the lower floor was frequented by teenagers and young adults.

After spending some time on the upper floor, I felt shackled and restrained. It was as if my freedom was suffocating. The formality I was compelled to adopt weighed heavily on me, and I began to feel boredom and monotony creeping in. I didn’t want to remain a mere observer, like a statue or a mummified man stuck on the chair. I yearned to seize those beautiful moments rather than let them slip away under the guise of decorum and pretentiousness.

I requested permission from the general to descend to the lower floor. There, a vibrant chaos of life awaited me. The dance was astonishingly exhilarating. After some hesitation, and perhaps some discontent from an official, I was granted permission, although I was cautioned to remain aware of my surroundings and to guard my money, as thefts occasionally occurred there. He reminded me not to linger.

I descended to the lower floor, eager to dance with a girl. What once seemed a distant dream was now within reach. In “Volga Grad,” the women were beautiful, and the girls even more so. I wanted to steal half an hour—or even just a few minutes—of their time. Each minute here felt dense, equivalent to the lost opportunities of my squandered life. Oh, the sorrow of my wasted years! I wanted to shout: Time, pause for a moment! I want to dance with a girl until I am intoxicated. Dancing grants the spirit a realm of joy and happiness. How tragic it is for those who do not dance… and how tragic for me, I mused.

For the first time, I felt an emptiness within me, a cosmic void larger than the galaxy. I yearned to unload this burden of emptiness and dance until I soared high among the distant stars. I wanted to dance until I was dizzy, to compensate for worlds that had eluded my dreams and confessions. A wild desire surged within me to liberate my soul from chains heavier than iron. I wished to unleash my spirit, even if just for a fleeting moment, to soar in the vastness of the horizon and the expansive sky. That day, the sky was clear.

I lived through great suffering, enduring much deprivation that shadowed my weary, burdened life. I came from a land where many elders still forbid singing and dancing, denying us joy and celebration. They are so rigid that they fit Nietzsche’s description of a “wretched and sickly kind… a herd that gazes malignantly upon life, their eyes filled with malice for this earth… Their feet are heavy, and their hearts suffocate in humidity… How can the earth be light for such a type?”

I spoke to myself as I absorbed the scene before me: I, who was buried in shyness, must not waste these moments that may never return. Life is far too short, and I do not want to regret the youthful days that slipped away, nor squander these life-soaked moments. The world here sings, dances, and lives fully in every dimension. Beautiful moments in every sense! I, bound by iron and fire, have wasted my dearest years, and what remains of them drifts into oblivion.

I felt a profound loneliness and estrangement at the table, like an orphan missing all affection. An endless internal void surrounded me, while joy overflowed around me. Regret settled in my heart for what had passed, occupying my corridors and corners. My disappointments felt like a black hole, vast enough to swallow all the world’s failures. I sensed my grand hopes withering, each day adding to the desolation, as my life faded without acknowledging its modest aspirations.

Black holes devoured my hopes and dreams, and my existence wept like a young artist, wounded and sorrowful. Time passed without my having danced with a girl. I was tormented, practicing the madness of dance to the rhythm of my aching love. I came from a land burdened by darkness, where shame loomed like mountains. Who could lift the weight of age-old burdens from my chest? In my homeland, the call for singing and dancing is condemned as an invitation to vice and depravity. The harshness of repression here deserves punishment.

Yet, alas, I do not know how to dance; I have never learned. All I know is to chew on my losses and lament the days that have slipped away. In the courtyard, my friend Faisal Al-Khudairy was inspired by dance, and his companions excelled in its various forms—Lahji, Zubairi, Dhalae, and military dances, among others. As for me, my shyness was my greatest hindrance, and my rare attempts merely confirmed my dismal failure, despite the love and passion I harbored within.

Jalal Al-Din Al Rumi said, “Without love, all music is noise… all worship is a burden.” The music was present here, and the dance was available. What remained was the missing piece to uplift the spirit—a moment that could seize all memory.

The girls of “Volga Grad” were beautiful, possessing something unique—a charm and grace overflowing with magic and beauty. Life radiated from their faces, a brilliance and elegance that I could only envy. Meanwhile, at the table, I was consumed by estrangement and deprivation. I squeezed my sorrow, twisting in patience, shyness, and longing, held back from what I desired.

My struggle was not only with my shyness and the heavy burden of embarrassment weighing on my shoulders but also with the Russian language, of which I understood not a single letter. I spoke to myself in the absence of all my friends: I would try to muster my courage and gather my bravery to ask a girl to dance with me. Yet the language stood as an insurmountable barrier preventing me from conveying my feelings and desires.

I longed to dance with that enchanting beauty until I reached the heights of madness. Since I had not learned to dance, I would let the rhythm of the music guide my steps as best as I could. I wanted to hold that beauty close to my yearning heart, freeing my trapped emotions from their rusty walls.

I desired that girl to soothe the turmoil beneath my ribs, to extinguish the flames of love that burned within my veins. I envisioned a girl’s hand gently embracing me, a tender hand encouraging me to take a leap, patting my shoulder, which felt so heavy. I yearned to swim in her orbit until I became dizzy and melted into her embrace like a comet on fire.

I tried to summon my courage to ask a girl to dance with me. I attempted to recall the few Russian words I had gathered from my colleagues. A Russian word here, another there—I tried to piece them into a sentence or phrase that expressed my request:

“Excuse me… could you dance with me?” What a significant plea! I prayed for the heavens to respond, but they did not…

I resolved to dance with one of them. I touched her shoulder with my trembling fingers to catch her attention, hoping she would turn to me, even just partially. She turned toward me with surprise and wonder. She spoke to me in words I could not understand. I challenged my shyness and attempted to convey my request in Russian: “Excuse me… could you dance with me?”

I do not know what happened! As soon as I uttered my request, she and her friends erupted in laughter. I was bewildered! I had no idea what I had done! Why were they laughing? My request should have been familiar enough that she could decline, and I would understand and appreciate her refusal. I could even grasp it from her demeanor, even if I didn’t understand her words. But to laugh and include her friends in that laughter was utterly unexpected.

When I tried to reiterate my request, I found myself unable to repeat it. I felt like someone climbing a steep mountain, unaccustomed to looking down from its height—how could I ascend? I felt dizzy as I struggled to recall what I had said. Words slipped away, shifted, and transformed into something entirely different. My tongue stumbled on the fourth attempt, failing to convey the meaning I had intended, leaving me utterly lost in my speech.

They conversed among themselves, some laughing, others smiling, realizing I came from a faraway land and was a stranger. My face turned a deep shade of crimson from embarrassment, and I understood nothing of the conversation. I was unsure how to manage my blunder! How could I escape the trap I had inadvertently set for myself?

Then a lifeline appeared: the English word “sorry,” which I uttered as I retreated, cursing myself and lamenting my misfortune, dragging the tail of my disappointment back to the table.

After a moment, one of my colleagues descended from the upper floor and informed me that the Russian general was asking for me and wanted me immediately. At that moment, it was my rescue from a potentially prolonged embarrassment, especially since smiles and glances had not ceased while I was sinking in humiliation.

I returned to my seat on the upper floor, dragging my disappointment and defeat with me. One of them asked what had transpired. I recounted the story, and he laughed, saying, “You didn’t ask her to dance; you asked her to get in the car with you!” I laughed at myself and my situation, my alienation, until I felt a bit light-headed.