The Debka Teacher

The dance studio was a converted warehouse, its concrete floors worn smooth by a thousand stamping feet. Nadia stood at the back of the line, desperately trying to follow movements that looked simple but felt impossible.

"No, no, no!" The instructor—Kareem, according to the flyer—stopped the music. "You're thinking too much. Dabke isn't thinking. It's feeling."

"I'm trying—"

"Try less." He moved toward her, and Nadia's heart rate spiked for reasons beyond the dancing. He was beautiful in the way old olive trees were beautiful—rooted, strong, full of something ancient.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Detroit. My parents are from Bethlehem."

"Ah. A returner." His smile softened. "Stay after class. We'll work on the basics."

The private lessons became ritual. Twice a week, Kareem guided Nadia through steps she'd watched her grandmother do as a child, movements that felt like memory even though she'd never learned them.

"Better," he said one evening, his hands correcting her posture. "You're starting to let the music in."

"Why does it matter so much to you?" The question had been building for weeks. "Teaching diaspora kids to dance."

"Because dabke is resistance." His eyes were fierce. "Every time we stamp our feet, we're saying 'We're still here.' Every time someone from outside learns, the message spreads."

"That's beautiful."

"It's survival." His hands lingered on her waist. "Why did you really come, Nadia? To Palestine, to this class?"

"I was empty," she admitted. "In Detroit, I had everything—career, apartment, stability. But I felt like I was missing pieces. Like there were holes only this place could fill."

"And now?"

"Now I'm finding them."

The tension broke during a late-night practice, just the two of them in the studio. The music shifted to something slow—not dabke, but an old love song Nadia recognized from her childhood.

"Dance with me," Kareem said. "Not the steps. Just... movement."

She went to him without hesitation. They swayed in the empty space, his arms around her, her head against his chest.

"I shouldn't," he murmured against her hair. "You're my student."

"Teach me something else then."

"Nadia—"

"I'm tired of being careful." She looked up. "I came here to feel. Let me feel."

He kissed her like a man surrendering—fierce and sweet and complete.

They made love on the studio floor, the music still playing, their movements as synchronized as any dance.

"Ya Allah," Kareem groaned, his body moving above hers. "Been bahlamik." I've been dreaming of you.

"Show me." She arched into him. "All of it."

He did—driving into her with the same precision he brought to his teaching, building her pleasure with expert timing. Nadia cried out in Arabic she didn't know she remembered, words tumbling from some ancestral memory.

"Kareem—I'm—"

"Let go. I've got you."

She came with his name on her lips, pulling him into his own release, their bodies finally speaking the language she'd crossed an ocean to learn.

"Join the troupe," Kareem said afterward, wrapped together on his discarded jacket. "Officially. We're performing at a festival next month."

"I'm not good enough—"

"You're perfect." He kissed her forehead. "And I want you beside me. Not just in dance. In everything."

"I have to go back to Detroit eventually. My job—"

"Jobs can change. Locations can shift." His eyes held hers. "But what we have—this connection—that's rare. I won't let geography destroy it."

"You're asking me to upend my life."

"I'm asking you to complete it." His smile was gentle. "You said you had holes. Let me help you fill them."

Nadia thought of Detroit—gray, familiar, empty. Then of Kareem, this impossible man who'd taught her to stamp her feet and claim her place.

"Na'am," she said. "But I want to learn the sword dance too."

His laughter echoed through the empty studio, and somewhere in the distance, Nadia's grandmother's ghost joined the line.

Some dances, she realized, you practiced your whole life to learn. The steps to this one were just beginning.