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Dedicated to the memory of the Syrian dancer Hassan Rabeh who committed suicide in June, 2016 

 

“Every movement of the dancer on the stage needs to be performed with passion, this is art. Remember, Hassan, the greatest moment in the show is the dancer’s last move. You close your eyes and let go in its execution. Lift your body, not like this Hassan… with force and determination… that’s it… and swirl  into the void until you land again full of confidence… keep your body straight, Hassan… that’s it”.

Before every show he always remembered Ayse’s words, his first dance teacher. He was a young boy when his mother took him by the hand to Ayse’s famous dance Academy at the city centre, despite his father’s objections. Thanks to her he had felt the flame of passion for dancing to wrap him up and quickly he showed his talent. His mother felt proud, seeing on his face that she never claimed incarnation of a destiny that she never claimed for herself.

It was almost ten years after that day. Hassan had perfected his movement, his technique was excellent and Ayse had long realised that it was time for her student to move on. Besides the war had ravaged the city, she had grown old and the Academy couldn’t remain open without pupils.

“Hassan,” she called one afternoon while he was opening the school’s door to leave with his backpack on.

“Is there something you need?” he replied and while still holding the door knob he turned around and looked at her. She looked pale, drawn and tired. The years had no started to show on her athletic body and great despair was depicted in her eyes. “Hassan, today is the last day that…” a knot of sorrow grabbed her throat and made her stop.   

Hassan was silent. He was looking into her eyes trying to understand. He felt fear in her drowning silence. But he didn’t react. He was waiting stoically. After a while, she continued: “The school closes tomorrow. Don’t come again. It’s dangerous for all of us. The bombardments continue… if something happens… maybe later… when it all ends Hassan we might be able to… you have to leave this place, continue your studies elsewhere…”

He opened the door and left. Without even saying “goodbye”. He grabbed his discouraged soul and run down the street. And he didn’t speak to anyone, not even when he got home. He shut himself into his room and felt unbearable tears rolling down on his cheeks. He didn’t sleep at all. Not for a single minute. He listened to the sirens scream in the depths of the city and once again his soul shrank, withering in the shackles of a nightmare. All night he was thinking about every minute he had spent near Ayse, every move she had taught him, her smile when he managed to execute the most difficult dance figures. With her huge eyes highlighting her slender face and her black hair wrapped in a tight bun she looked like a real swan, like the one she always liked to represent with her dance.

The next morning he heard that the school didn’t exist anymore. A bomb had crashed the building which housed the Academy and with it Ayse’s dreams and body.

A few months later he left the country. Alone, a foreigner, a refugee in Damascus. Hosted by a new family, far away from his own, who had also been lost under the debris a night of the same unsuspecting summer.

An unexplored sea his soul, dipped in the storm and dance a big hug sending away his fears. One night it started to rain heavily. He went out in the street and started dancing, frantically. He became another drop of rain and was united with the water which soaked his white shirt. He danced and felt like penetrating the body of the night in a damned intercourse which ensured the continuation of life.

“He must be mad and we took him in our home”, said to her husband next morning the woman in whose house he lived in and a bit later he found himself kicked out, walking with his head down the streets of Damascus with his small backpack on.

Long afterwards life brought him in Beirut. Another refugee among one and a half million refugees who lived in the streets of Lebanon. Refugee for a second time, not that it matters, he thought and lit a cigarette. Two years without a home, purpose, companion, family, work, without love in his life. He slept wherever he could find, he was fast for days, he did whatever work was given, quite often just for a piece of bread, and he was constantly afraid of being deported.

He spent his days hiding like a wild animal. At night he went in the streets and danced, like crazy, as if he was measuring with his moves how seemingly right the absurdity he lived in, could be. And he felt free because art can break all binds. “I’m the creation of my God,” he thought and for him dance was his only God.

At twenty five the homeless dancer had become known. Everybody knew the refugee artist, the charming dancer with the long black hair and the straight poise who danced with passion in the streets at night and looked for a job in the morning. But no one knew what he was hiding in his soul. How much pain he carried on his back, how many secret transactions he had made with destiny, the amount of loneliness which hurt his dreams, every time he heard being called “foreigner”.

And suddenly one night everything changed. He was dancing alone in the dark, when a young girl approached him and started dancing with him. She asked him to follow her the moment their sweating bodies touched each other. And he accepted. Soon she was with her starring in a performance of modern dance. She suggested him to the choreographer. Gradually everything began to improve. He eventually managed to rent a furnished apartment. He would ask her to live with him, the two of them, in the illusion of a common destiny. If she accepted. He would ask her that day, after the dance. And when the performances were over he would find work somewhere else. He would keep the house. If needed he would ask his landlady to show some patience. Life seemed to smile at him again and from his chest dreams started fluttering.

The applause that night was loud. His soul was flying. From the front seats he heard the conversation of two friends who stared at him:

            “That one dances beautifully.”

“He is a refugee… who knows where he comes from.”

He returned home, still wearing the white shirt of the show. It was June, the heat was unbearable and it was suffocating him. He went out on the balcony to get some air. He felt the sweat pouring down from his forehead into his eyes and from there dripping on his open shirt.

            He lit a cigarette and thought about the performance which had just finished. He heard the applause again. That man’s words in the front seats. Yes, he was not mistaken it was about him.

And then Ayse’s words came to mind:

“Remember, Hassan, the greatest moment in the show is the dancer’s last move. You close your eyes and let go in its execution. Lift your body, not like this Hassan… with force and determination… that’s it… and swirl  into the void until you land again full of confidence… keep your body straight, Hassan… that’s it”.

The next morning they found him dead in the middle of the street. Shattered from the fall. “A deranged personality,” said the neighbors and gathered around him. “He danced alone in the streets, he must have been crazy,” his landlady confirmed as they were taking him away. No one saw him swirling in the void and land on the ground with confidence. No one even took notice of this child’s dreams being laid bleeding on his torn shirt.

On that very same day it was on the newspapers: “Refugee committed suicide.”

This short novel is dedicated to Palestinian dancer Hassan Rabeh who committed suicide in June 2016. Posted in Ethnos newspaper under the general title “Hero of Summer” and the online magazine Fractal

Tessy Baila / Photo: Vasso Maragoudaki

 

Tessy Baila – Editor in Chief

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