“listen to the trees and grasses
listen to the wind and the dancing waters
shhh..
listen
Mother Earth is dancing beneath you”(M.K.H.)
One morning, after my Auntie and I had spent the early morning hours cleaning, cooking and washing, she announced we would departing for a trip to the ancient village of Al Hammel via the Jordanian city of Erbid. My Uncle and seven year old cousin Mona would accompany us. Here we would spend a few nights away from our domesticated home life.
We began our scenic journey by taxi from my Aunts house to the major bus depot in Amman. From there we boarded a modern bus with air-conditioning, armrests and movable seats. It was a luxurious surprise as the journey was a hot one despite what I realised was the semi acceptable conditioned air that limply blew only along the first front row of seats!! I had to move several times just to catch a cool whiff of air and prevent myself from fainting!
We passed through Jerash, a village still thriving from biblical days; a magnificent oasis in the desert. Great green palms flanked further down the road by dry desert soil. The contrast of landscape was breathtaking.
After many hours of driving we arrived in the small village of Erbid where we bought sweet nectar drinks, bizer and foostouk (salty pumpkin seeds and pistachio kernels), before catching a taxi to another smaller bus depot where we boarded a mini van filled with villagers in traditional dress. My Auntie wanted to stock up with fruit and vegetables before we boarded the bus. The shops were a minimalist affair. Old wooden fruit boxes lined the dusty ground as an attendant sat back in the cool shadows of a dingy dwelling. All I could see was a draped white cloth reflected in the sunlight and brown sandals covering stocky toes exposed in a foreboding silence. Bus and car fumes drifted around all the shop fronts and I felt glad I did not have to sit there each day breathing in this thick air.
Once our shopping was completed, we all squashed into the small van like bus, people staring at one another smiling through kohl eyes staring out from behind the hata (head dress). We traveled another 35km as I kept my face pressed against the window not wanting to miss the sights. Something flickered deep within my memory veins, alerting me to the fact that I had been here before. After traveling just ten minutes through dust and stony roads the beauty started to unveil itself. Huge steep mountains sloping down into lush green valleys below.
Date and banana plantations in abundanceanother oasis in the desert. My Auntie pointed into the distance, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She whispered to me “close are the hills of Palestine”. I sighed and wished that my father could be sitting with me holding my hand. I took many photographs as the bus descended down the mountain and at every turn I gasped in wonderment. This land radiated the centuries past with such a warm invitation for me to enjoy its antiquity, in this, its present moment. Farms, goats, stone houses, stray cows all flickered before me as children ran along the road in all directions. I tried to imagine them in 50 years time and thought that they would raise their children’s children here too and nothing would really change. The bus stopped several times to pick up and drop off passengers. I was getting used to the traditional dress and loved the different coloured thread embroidered in the women’s cloth. It seemed more personalised than our very standard Western dresses.
Finally we arrived at Al Hammeh. It felt and looked just like biblical times. I was struck with the immense beauty of the place. Tropical greenery and sweeping mountains protected the village bordering Palestine/Israel in the distance. There were banana palms lining every road, sandwash stone houses, and donkeys wandering through the dry, dusty streets.
We booked into our hotel room. It had a bare cement floor with a basic shower, three hard single beds and one plastic rickety bedside table. A single globe dangled precariously at the centre of the room attached by a wire strip and there were about ten geckos scattered over the ceiling. I had never seen such strange, plasticine-like creatures and watched them with caution not wanting to share my bedspace with any one of them! I was secretly shocked at the accommodation but remained polite. My Auntie gave me a long cotton caftan and matching scarf, telling me to get dressed because we were going to walk to the public pools and go for a swim. (The quasi hotel where we were staying had a small swimming pool but I was informed that I would have to wear a full tracksuit for discretion to swim in it). My Auntie also gave me one of her old black bathing costumes to wear. It boasted a size 56EE cup! I honestly thought she was joking but I took it graciously.
We walked through the quiet village passing two solitary soldiers with guns slung over their backs and I felt really pleased that I was discreet in my head to toe attire. I felt safe in my armour, and for the first time began to understand the real benefits of being a Moslem woman in my place of origin. We didn’t have to deal with the stares of men or feel self conscious about our bodies or physically compare ourselves to other women. In a strange way, from my renewed perspective we were intrinsically free to just be.
When we arrived at the pool area there were many women in similar dress sitting on stone benches set around a courtyard waiting quietly, but for what? I wasn’t sure. The murmuring sound of voices and whirring of cicadas hummed in the warm air. Suddenly a loud ringing of a hand bell abruptly disturbed the relaxed atmosphere. Within moments, men in long caftans began emerging from stairs below the courtyard level. I realised at that moment that the public pools were underground and now it was time for the women to have a swim. We all rose in silence, walked calmly down the stairs and through a large, carved, wooden doorway. Once the heavy doors were closed, I was overwhelmed by a strong sulphur smell and the intensity of the heat cascaded in waves around me. I took my time adjusting to this strange atmosphere feeling a wave of nausea ripple through my stomach. Sitting on a stone platform I tried to breathe my way through the sickness but was shaken out of my efforts by girls and women going absolutely wild. I looked up to see them ripping off their clothes to reveal their unashamed nakedness, swimming costumes or exquisite silk lingerie. They began laughing, jumping and screaming with delight around the pool. I watched this display of joyful liberation with disbelief and intrigue no longer noticing the sickening feeling in my stomach. I had been to lots of school swimming carnivals but nothing compared to the excitement in this intimate space! I cautiously walked toward the pool in my size 56 EE black bathing costume and was almost pushed into the rich waters by a flurry of hands and bodies. Diving in to the warm sulphur I swam confidently from pool end to pool end, much to the surprise and delight of my audience. They cried out “teach us to swim, teach us to swim” and I told them “watch me and follow”. As I duck dived and stood up on my hands under the water I was aware of many pairs of legs encircling me. The girl’s were totally fascinated by my dexterity in the water.
As I resurfaced inhaling the humidity, the most extraordinary scene unfolded before my eyes. Steam rose from the pool like a cobra uncurling from itself as a pubescent girl placed an Arabic music tape into a beat up cassette player on the pool edge. Girls and women began to clap and cry out soulfully as the music slowly cascaded into a deep well of emotion. One by one girls began rocking and shimmying in rhythm totally immersed in the sheer joy and sensuality of the moment. The way they danced, Arabic style, was loose and natural flowing to the beat smiling as hip to hip they swayed, teasing one another with their uninhibited feminine allure.
A petite, exquisitely beautiful girl with golden hooped earrings, no more than fifteen years old, eyes closed, droplets of sweat mixed with humidity clinging to her mocha skin enthralled the excited dancersher innocence woven into womanhoodshe beckoned with bejewelled fingers, flicking her hips toward the others who called out her name, strong and wild, punctuated with Arabic words of praise. She was lost in trance and I too realised that I had not moved from the pool edge, totally transfixed in the moment, enriched and enlivened. Embraced by magicwords could not do justice. I lay witness to the sheer power of woman. “This is it” I thought, “this is my right”. In the sole presence of women only, I realised my power and potential; to tap into the intuitive knowledge I have as a woman and celebrate my cultural roots with pride. For so long I had been ashamed to be an Arab, I had always wanted to be a blonde, blue eyed Aryan girl, but not in this moment.
I sat on wet stones in the steam area, throwing buckets of hot water over my now naked brown body, I began to ululate with the women in unisona cry of honoura cry of happiness. As the girls continued dancing with enthusiasm, I turned to face a very old woman with long grey plaits sitting next to me. She looked like a wise, marble statue as she smiled and slowly nodded her head. I felt as though a veil had lifted and floated out from my core and I, like a perfumed rose, was ready to reveal my bud. Finally I was in a place of familiarity that sparked a new discovery into the powers that lay within my deepest essence. I belonged! The fact that I physically lived thousands of miles away on the other side of the planet seemed insignificant. I was connected to these women through my higher spirit, life force and culture. How aroused and liberated I felt.
Suddenly the scene changed, a large busty superintendent woman wearing pointed sequinned slippers and carrying a cane started to yell at the dancing girls “ hurry hurry yullah yullah out out time is up”. There was a sharp change in movement and the girls jumped out from the water and ran to the drying room. Reluctantly we all dressed back into our traditional clothes then walked out with sombre expressions but great dignity into the sunlit courtyard. Never was the splendour of the inside pool chamber revealed to the outer world but instead we carried home the feeling of ecstasy and freedom within our hearts.
To this day I thank these women for fully igniting my passion for the dance, for allowing me to acknowledge my Eastern sense of identity in a Western world and for their purity and genuine love for one another.
By the time we arrived back at our hotel it was dusk. We ate fruit and sat together by the hotel pool, a large hole lined with rocks. The moonlight shimmered in the water and the great mountains embraced our cosy party. Arabic music played in the distance as I swayed my body gently to its beat. My Auntie spoke to me of the cousin that I now had a strong connection to and how he had wanted to marry an English girl but she had told him to wait till he met the cousin “from Australia”. Was our attraction designed by conspiracy I wondered? My thoughts were interrupted. Three boys with beautiful doe eyes stood by my side thrusting packets of unopened coloured tissue packets at me. They seemed to have come out from the shadows and at this hour I wondered why they were not at home in bed with their families. As I bought a packet of tissues from each one of them, I was reminded of my privileged Western upbringing and felt the dilemma as I stood in both worlds; east and west, wiping away a tear that had melted upon my cheek. In which world did I belong? Why couldn’t I just accept each and take the experiences from both to enhance my life and teach my children the beauty of both worlds.
My mind began to fade as the clouds gently passed over the moon and so I retired to my basic little bed and thanked Allah for the pleasures of the day. I slept very well that night despite the geckos that had multiplied across the ceiling and walls. I did not care. I dreamt I was swimming in a shimmering lake under a pearl moon, the beauty of Amar, and I emerged from the cool waters as an Egyptian Queen covered in jewelled silken robes, hair flowing into the waters and a feeling of quiet tranquillity throughout my entire body.
The next day we rose refreshed at 8.00am and returned to the sulphur pools. Once again I put on my 56 EE’s and this time was able to put my whole body into the very hot waters. All the girls from yesterday had come back and there was a new one who spoke eloquent English. She was pushed forward toward me and we had a brief, polite conversation as the Arabic music began to play. The girls began singing and dancing all around the main pool and this time I felt compelled to make a brief dance gesture with my hands. They screamed with delight and yelled and clapped for me to get up on to the pool edge and dance. The beautiful young girl who had tantalised us the day before pulled me out of the pool and before I knew it I was encircled by all the girls squealing with excitement. I shed my initial embarrassment at being on show and began to dance and clap to the strong drum beat. The girl’s went wild shouting for more and a few joined me in the dance. Despite the intense heat and smell I let my body in the size 56 EE bathers shake and shimmy and rock its hips all around the pool edge. I felt free in the dance but the recurring theme of my alienation from culture, my mother and the contrast of my Australian “story” surfaced for me. On the one hand I wished that I had been raised in a Middle Eastern country so I could fully understand where I came from and feel how the source of my cultural identity would fit me like a glove. I wished that my mother could witness my beauty and joy in this moment of total abandonment. On the other hand, my Western self was glad that I stood out from the crowd, dancing by the pool allowing my individuality to shine a light upon certain freedoms I had. It was a moment where I glimpsed in to the purity of my self-radiating a satisfying sense of simple joy. Admiration from all my sisters felt good. When the dancing drew to a close the women ululated so loudly that the sound echoed from stone wall to stone wall enveloping me in its warmth. I felt exhilarated and plunged my whole body into the hot springs telling myself that I could achieve anything my heart desired anywhere, anytime.
About the Author...
Maha Al Musa is a mother (of two gorgeous sons), writer, human rights activist, dancer and lover of all things connected to the divine 'feminine'. She is of Palestinian / Moslem and Lebanese / Christian background and was born in Kuwait and migrated to Australia in the early 60's. In 1996, whilst pregnant with her first son Kailash, she reconnected to her cultural roots through the "bellydance". Maha now teaches belly dance for birth internationally and has written her first e-book, Dance of the Womb, which is available on her website - BellyDanceForBirth.com
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