{"id":33542,"date":"2024-07-05T10:06:25","date_gmt":"2024-07-05T08:06:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=33542"},"modified":"2024-07-05T10:06:25","modified_gmt":"2024-07-05T08:06:25","slug":"we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/","title":{"rendered":"“We Danced”\u2014a story by MK Harb"},"content":{"rendered":"
In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

MK Harb<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

The evening when dance came into my life, I was on Careema\u2019s balcony. She needed help repotting her hundreds of plants, untangling them from the Babylonian garden they formed in the sky of Beirut. I squatted in front of withered lilies, which now smelled like cat piss, and my knees popped and cracked like tree twigs. Sasha, the awkwardness ethnographer, noticed and said, \u201cI know your metabolism slows in your thirties, but you\u2019re starting to sound like a Victorian grandma.\u201d Careema, who looked like she was farming in the Beqaa valley, with smudges of dirt on her cheeks and fingers, laughed, \u201cEven his spirit is very old-world these days. All Malek needs is a martini glass and a poignant stare, and he\u2019s ready to say, \u2018Gather round children, for I have a story to tell.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWay to make me feel even older? Anyway, let\u2019s take a break,\u201d I said. We went inside, and sat on the dining table, in a bohemian cavern of pleasure cards and <\/span>Hanshi<\/span><\/i> paper with yesterday\u2019s revelations scribbled around miniature cherry blossom trees beside a bunch of burnt palo santo. Sasha crossed his legs in the manner of a Lebanese woman in her fifties and lit a cigarette, which prompted Careema to scold him, \u201cI told you no smoking indoors.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, when you\u2019re walking outside in Beirut, you\u2019re also smoking indoors, right? Marlboro Light is better than those generator fumes,\u201d exclaimed Sasha.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get back to the important issue: what will I do about my knees?\u201d I said, \u201cIn my last session with my psychoanalyst, I realized I’d internalized my mother\u2019s melancholy. Is that why they\u2019re cracking?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPsychoanalysis just makes you crazier,\u201d Sasha said before eating a pistachio <\/span>maamoul<\/span><\/i>, splitting it in half with his mouth; an aroma of orange blossom emerged. \u201cHmm, is this real pistachio? A rarity since the economy derailed,\u201d he commented. \u201cAnyways, Malek, you\u2019ve been seeing this analyst for years, and what good has it gotten you? All you say is mother and lack. Lebanese men are born with a maternal obsession, and you don\u2019t need more of that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

To my surprise, Careema agreed with Sasha and went on to say, \u201cIt\u2019s true, Malek; you\u2019re stuck in the past too much. You\u2019re supposed to heal your inner child and move on, not reenact it. Why don\u2019t you meditate? That always helps me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Sasha ate the last bits of the <\/span>maamoul<\/span><\/i> and snapped \u2014 his voice increased as though a fan was accelerating inside his throat. \u201cDon\u2019t listen to her; meditation was invented by Americans to get you back to work. Calmer employees are more productive.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Careema screamed a laugh and said, “Sasha, it\u2019s an ancient practice. What are you talking about?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re not in the Indus Valley Civilization. Most people are meditating with a white woman from Maine on YouTube,\u201d he said. \u201cIn any case, what both of you need is to have sex. The most profound healing happens in bed.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCheers to that,\u201d I said, raising an invisible martini glass.<\/span><\/p>\n

Careema rolled her eyes and said, \u201cListen.\u201d Her voice took on a softer tone, which often meant sincere advice was on its way. \u201cI am starting this dance therapy class with a man called Siwar. It\u2019s in an old house in Ein El Mrayseh. Many of my friends have experienced deep releases with him. He claims he\u2019s the reincarnation of Tahia Carioca, the famed Egyptian belly dancer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAhaahaha,\u201d snickered Sasha. He had this abundant laugh that could climb ten flights of stairs. \u201cReincarnation of Tahia Carioca? It sounds like a scam. The only thing to be released in Ein El Mrayseh is your wallet.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt does sound like a scam, but why not? I haven\u2019t danced since Bardo closed down,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Careema winked, and we agreed to meet at the studio at noon.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

It was strange to be back in Ein El Mrayseh, my family\u2019s home and source of lament. I was born into my parents\u2019 anguish about their changed city and lived through their nostalgia more than I was allowed to live in the streets of Beirut. So I avoided many of their haunts and memory triggers, from the Wimpy in Hamra to Casablanca in Ein El Mrayseh. I did not want to be a ruin. \u201cWe\u2019ve lived in this neighborhood for 300 years,\u201d my grandma would say, \u201cand now it\u2019s full of prostitutes and a McDonald’s \u2014 that\u2019s what Beirut has come to, thighs and burgers!\u201d Beirutis have this pride about being in the same area for decades; perhaps they imagine there is a consolation prize for not moving. But now that I\u2019m back in Ein El Mrayseh to dance, in this charmed cul-de-sac with its warped alleyways, its terrazzo-tiled houses, and the bougainvillea plants of purple, yellow, and red that dotted every terrace sat in quietness, which is unfathomable for Beirut at noon, I understood that their sadness was about abandoning this fishermen\u2019s village tucked inside a city and being thrown out into a real Beirut swallowed by towers and crooks.<\/span><\/p>\n

Careema arrived a few minutes into my daydreaming, and she hollered, \u201cYalla.\u201d She was wearing these baggy yellow shorts that fell right over her knees, and her eyes were drawn in by the excitement of newness. Behind her was a nondescript house with a sign that said Studio Tahia. It had yellowish walls and pockets of humidity formed from the sea near us. The roof had a satellite dish and a water storage tank tucked behind a dozen or so snake plants, a few feet tall, standing guard over the house. The everydayness of the studio and the curtains draped over the windows, with just a bit of peeking potential left, made me wonder about the past lives of those who lived here, stealing glances from the window overlooking the fishermen\u2019s port. Near the entrance was a shirtless man with a gaze fixed on the road in some sort of trance \u2014 his chest was balmier than Beirut in August. I waved at him, inquiring about the class, and he stood up, put a shirt on, and said, \u201cI\u2019ve done cross-fit, pilates, yoga, you name it. But nothing like this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Careema rubbed her hands. \u201cExciting,\u201d she said, and I nodded in appreciation.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside, the air smelled of sage and sea salt, causing my nostrils to flare out. Careema inhaled a stretched breath and said, \u201cI\u2019m home.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd welcome home indeed,\u201d said a zany attendant, handing us two small white towels with \u201cjoy\u201d sewn in red in the middle. \u201cCareema and Malek, right? You\u2019re here for the restorative dance class?\u201d she asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said with a bit of hesitation. \u201cWelcome! We will start shortly if you can just fill out this health form,\u201d she moved around the room with gold anklets clung to her. The form was a mixture of familiar and odd questions. Checkboxes for asthma, heart issues, and medications, but then came the more piercing questions \u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

Do you have a history of somatic disorders?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

In which organs do you hold stress in your body?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Do you hate tight collars?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Have you or anyone in your family experienced severe trauma?\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Do your feet touch the ground?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

I was unsure what to say, who had not been traumatized while living in Beirut. So, I answered \u201cperhaps\u201d to all of them.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

In the dance room, four people were sitting across its wooden floors, each snuggled in an imaginary corner of safety. Across the room was a timeline connecting the words \u201craqs,\u201d \u201cqalb,\u201d and \u201cjasad\u201d \u2014 a triptych composed of dance, heart, and body. The attendant dimmed the lights, closed the curtains and banished Ein El Mrayseh out of sight; there was no peeking for us. When the music played, it began with a soft oud ensemble, the type you would hear during a somber Ramadan night, and it stayed like that for a bit as an unknown, almost clinical voice asked us to relax. One of the students, who had glutes carved out of an ancient stone, stood up and swayed, guided by a softness in the air, as she danced with the voice. I envied the ease with which she performed in front of strangers. A short while later, the oud swirled into accelerated drumming played on the tabla, increasing more and more until it found a home in the base of my spine, so I closed my eyes and swayed inside my mind.<\/span><\/p>\n

A melody of rustling bangles and carefully punctuated footsteps brought me back to the floor, and when I opened my eyes, I witnessed a tall man dressed in a shimmering red belly-dancing suit. He stood under the Murano glass chandelier, absorbing the columns of light descending from it. Thick kohl<\/span> drew in mystery under and around his eyes, and from the sides of his shaved head dangled large golden earrings. On his waist was a belt with diamond sequences, and from it a light red fabric trailed the ground, a map he seemed to have surveyed many times before.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWelcome all,\u201d he said, moving his arms through invisible hoops in the air. The drums sped up again, but they could not compete with the aliveness in his torso, dancing in alternating moods of sensuality and vulnerability. He controlled each hip with terrifying precision, and I wondered how one\u2019s body could be an architecture. His stomach had a mouth of its own, and it moved independently from the rest of his body, opening and closing as his face took on the appearance of someone on the verge of tears. His hands flew across the room like carrier pigeons, and when they returned to him, he smiled. We were a small class, but the intensity with which he shook us remade us into a crowd abuzzing with energy. I watched, mesmerized, and for a brief moment, I felt present.<\/span><\/p>\n

When the dancing stopped, we looked around each other, unsure whether we should clap for Siwar, who, coming down from an ethereal haze, sat on the floor and dabbed his forehead with a towel. \u201cThis is the state I want you to embody after you complete this course,\u201d he said, with a tone exuding compassion. \u201cNow stand up and hold each other\u2019s hands, and together we will form a souk, a marketplace of hearts and minds,\u201d he said, coming near me and holding my left hand. \u201cClose your eyes, and without judgment, tell me what brings you here today.\u201d I closed my eyes and heard people with varying derelict and hopeful voices say, grief \u2014 change \u2014 boredom. It was my turn, and all I could muster up was neck pain. Siwar whispered in my ear, \u201cDid you ever listen to your neck? It might be telling you something.\u201d His words tingled across my body, and I was not sure if it was euphoria or the fear that I was in the presence of difference. I looked over to Careema, who was already in tears, and I understood that Siwar would become \u201cher person.\u201d She had a new person every year, who moved her along a checkpoint in life. Sometimes it was a chakra healer, other times a sound bather, and this time a dancer.<\/span><\/p>\n

We retreated to our corners, and Siwar instructed us to stretch our legs. \u201cLook at them,\u201d he said, \u201cand thank them for all the times they\u2019ve carried you. When we\u2019re young we\u2019re close to the ground and connected to it. As we grow older and taller, we lose track of that connection, instead focusing on imaginary stress coming down from the sky.\u201d It was the first time I stared at my legs, and I experienced gratitude for all the long walks they\u2019ve taken me on and all the tiptoeing out of awkward hookups. \u201cNow get up and move your hips and jaw in tandem. Right left, the slower, the better,\u201d Siwar said. \u201cIf you find yourself crying or laughing, don\u2019t be scared. Before we can dance, we need to learn to control our body’s micro muscles, which often store emotions within them.\u201d I tried to move my hips in coordination with my jaw, but it was like pushing Roman pillars. Siwar walked across the room and placed his hands around my hips, taming a small fright within them, and said, \u201cLet go of your thoughts and be a cloud. The body knows what to do.\u201d I attempted to be a cloud, but my mind told me clouds are lonely, just flying there in the sky, unable to touch or fully grab someone. Siwar felt my stuckness and sent flowing energy around me, propelling my body and spirit into a rhythm. He smirked, “See, there is a Shakira somewhere there. Let her out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

By the end of the class, we had spent an hour learning about the anatomy of sensations in our body, from the balls of our feet to our occipital ridge. \u201cNow it\u2019s time to close the class. I want you to dance for pleasure. Jump, yell, twirl, belly dance, do whatever makes you unfurl,\u201d said Siwar. What followed was a series of tantric beats, interrupted with tropical bird sounds, and the people around me soared into all sorts of wild acrobatics. Careema was overjoyed, her chest wider than the sea across us.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBravo, Careema! Just be,\u201d Siwar proceeded to look at me. \u201cNo more standing and observing,\u201d he said. \u201cTake my hand, and let\u2019s skip over your old self,\u201d causing me to fly into memories of how much I hated gym class in school and how group activities overwhelmed me, so I twirled across the room in some Sufi trance while various images of an angry part of me, a sobbing part, and a paranoid part appeared. When the music stopped, I found myself on the floor, gasping for air, with Siwar standing over me. He said, \u201cYou\u2019ve arrived.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Since that first day, Siwar has become our new ritual \u2014 the more classes we did, the more that hit of just one more dance increased within us. On his hardwood floor, our limbs grew taller; he taught us theatrics and versions of the body we did not know existed. We talked about him over wine and instructed others to go see him to heal their distress. Each time we left his class, the world had vibrant shapes, colors, and overall ease. Even Sasha admired this new version of me. \u201cYou went from Victorian grandma to Natasha Bedingfield, feeling the rain on her skin,\u201d he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Six months into our journey with Siwar, the attendant told us they had a special ceremony prepared for us. \u201cYou will be awarded a completion certificate for all your hard work,\u201d she said with a twinkle in her eye. That night, when Siwar opened the door, he looked more tired than usual, and a smile battled fatigue in his mouth. He complimented us on our outfits. I was still in shorts, but Careema, honoring the seriousness of this occasion, sported a flowy business suit, the type a life coach would wear. There was no one else in the studio, and after giving us a certificate printed in gold, he took us to his office, which we had never seen. There were no tables or chairs, just a hammock and a meditation corner.<\/span><\/p>\n

He looked to his left and said, \u201cThis is the real surprise.\u201d On the wall were these large posters with bad resolution, the type you would get after printing from an iPhone. \u201cIt\u2019s an estate in Ehden.\u201d Siwar pointed at a vast and empty mountain range with snow-capped hills. \u201cThis is my ultimate vision,\u201d he said, \u201ca healed dance community away from the ruckus and politics of Beirut and in the foothills of the mountains.\u201d He put his arms over our shoulders and announced, \u201cI haven\u2019t extended this invitation to everyone, but together with certain members of the community, we\u2019ve been pooling money to buy this estate. We still need $200,000.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, you can contribute as much as life has given you, just like in my classes,\u201d he said. Careema nodded without talking, and suddenly trepidation crawled across my body. The studio, usually washed with joy, now appeared gloomy. Siwar stared blankly into my eyes and said, \u201cJust imagine all of us together there, dancing and finding God among the oak and juniper trees.\u201d I stared back at him, but this time his face was different; he wasn\u2019t Tahia the dancer; he was Siwar, a salesman with a pitch drawn on his face, an expression of greed I had seen countless times on the faces of Lebanese men in Beirut, selling you a promise. I trod carefully and said, \u201cIt looks beautiful. Vast like you. How about we think about it and get back to you next week?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I have some money I\u2019ve wanted to invest, and I would love to help. I will speak to my accountant,\u201d Careema said. Siwar tightened his hips, wanting to say more, but he smiled and said, \u201cOf course, my love. Now let\u2019s shimmy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

When we left the studio, we walked through the silence of the sunset until we arrived at the corniche. \u201cI don\u2019t think I will go back there,\u201d I said.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy? He didn\u2019t force us to pay or anything. It\u2019s just a community. Half of the Chouf Mountains are filled with yogis and homeopaths, so why is he different?\u201d she said. \u201cPeople need a break from the brutality of this city.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, but this just has a different air about it. And the amount he\u2019s requesting, come on, who has that money to spare right now?\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis is your old self speaking. Don\u2019t go back to that,\u201d she said, her tone growing disparate. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have a gut feeling about this, and as painful as it is to let go of dance, it\u2019s not wise to go back there,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I won\u2019t stop just because you\u2019re scared,\u201d Careema said. \u201cI\u2019m not telling you to stop; just promise me you won\u2019t give him any money,\u201d I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI won\u2019t,\u201d affirmed Careema. We then stayed silent, sitting at the sea\u2019s edge, watching the last rays of the sun dissolve.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

The first few weeks after stopping with Siwar were the hardest. I battled a rigidity that would come and go in my body, and I was filled with anger and regret. I avoided looking at my feet just like I avoided his calls, which did not stop for a month. He eventually gave up, sending me a final message. <\/span>I hope you will still dance<\/span><\/i>. Careema remained a regular at the studio, but we no longer discussed his classes \u2014 it was one of those friendship matters that you tucked away. But like all unspoken things, they eventually cough themselves out. One evening, Sasha and I got an urgent message from Careema asking us to meet her at Salon Beyrouth, and when we arrived, we found her sitting across the bar, forlorn with her glass of wine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d Sasha asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou were right,\u201d she said. I knew what she meant.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow much did you give him?\u201d I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLuckily, just a few thousand dollars. I was planning to go up to 10,000,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWho are you talking about?\u201d Sasha asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTahia Carioca,\u201d Careema and I replied. \u201cLast week I arrived at the studio excited to start my celestial belly dancing course only to find panicked students looking at a door left ajar and the studio was empty; nothing left but the chandelier in the living room,\u201d Careema said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sasha feigned a sigh of sympathy, but deep down he was joyous that his cynical worldview had been reinforced. He hugged Careema and said, \u201cFirst he stole belly dancing from women, and now he stole your money. I warned you against joining this cult.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShut up, Sasha,\u201d I said. \u201cDon\u2019t worry, we\u2019ll find him eventually. We just need all his students to file a report to form a critical mass.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis is a country of thieves. No one will care,\u201d Careema looked up from her wine glass, and for the first time I witnessed serious disbelief on her face. \u201cWe will haunt him in every cabaret around the world until we find him,\u201d Sasha said, causing us both to laugh.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Soon after filing the report, rumors began to fly. Some believed he moved to Venezuela, using the money to open a studio with his cousin in Caracas. The shirtless man from our first day, who we came to know as Youssef, developed an obsession with him, trailing the mountains of Ehden with his militia brother, yelling from his jeep, \u201cIf I find you, I will kill you, you scoundrel.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Others still had faith in Siwar, like Effat, who knew in her heart that he would return. \u201cHe can\u2019t just leave like that. He\u2019s just preparing for us to join the estate, right?\u201d she asked me when I ran into her at the supermarket.<\/span><\/p>\n

We eventually gave up, and like much of life, we forgot. Yet now and then, I would wonder, if I ran into Siwar, what would I say? Though I never did, until one day, years later, I went to a party in Badaro, and at midnight, as the crowd multiplied, I stepped outside to a large balcony, and I heard from the distance a familiar voice because it exuded an irresistible combination of confidence and compassion. \u201cI lead these restorative hiking rituals across Lebanon. You know that as you grow older, you connect more with the stress in the sky, but your feet are what ground you. Do you ever look at your feet and thank them? You will on this hike,\u201d the voice said. I followed it, peeking from behind a corner wall, and it was Siwar. There was no belly-dancing suit and no feminine mystique. He was buff now, with biceps bloated like Beirut\u2019s traffic and a full head of hair. He had a different bohemian look, a silver ring on each finger, and a pyramid tattoo in the middle of his chest. He saw me, and his eyes lit in panic, causing him to retreat from the woman. \u201cIt\u2019s getting late; I have to run,\u201d he said.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I dashed across the balcony, running after him and through the rapids of life, but he was gone. Inside the house, I yelled, “Siwar, are you there? I know it\u2019s you,\u201d but everyone stayed silent, giving me the look that this was the drunk man of the night. I went back outside, scanning the streets of Beirut, turning my head in all directions, until I found him entering a taxi. He looked up at me, smiled, and said, \u201cJust shimmy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb’s latest short story.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":354,"featured_media":33685,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[16,2995,3644],"tags":[323,3707,3706,3708,2589,3709],"article-category":[],"article-type":[],"coauthors":[2400],"class_list":["post-33542","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-short-stories","category-tmr-43-summer-fiction-24","tag-beirut","tag-beirut-dance","tag-dance-cult","tag-dance-therapy","tag-healing","tag-physical-psychotherapy"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n"We Danced"\u2014a story by MK Harb - The Markaz Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb's latest short story.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\""We Danced"\u2014a story by MK Harb\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb's latest short story.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Markaz Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2024-07-05T08:06:25+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1200\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"900\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"MK Harb\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"MK Harb\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"17 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"MK Harb\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/758d9b2288543198a9404fe97ef472b0\"},\"headline\":\"“We Danced”\u2014a story by MK Harb\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-07-05T08:06:25+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":3863,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/07\\\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Beirut\",\"Beirut dance\",\"dance cult\",\"dance therapy\",\"Healing\",\"physical psychotherapy\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Fiction\",\"short story\",\"TMR 43 \u2022 Summer Fiction '24\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/\",\"name\":\"\\\"We Danced\\\"\u2014a story by MK Harb - The Markaz Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/07\\\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-07-05T08:06:25+00:00\",\"description\":\"In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb's latest short story.\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/07\\\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/07\\\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg\",\"width\":1200,\"height\":900,\"caption\":\"Suzi Fadel Nassif (b. Lebanon, based in Dubai), detail from \\\"We Are Happy But Not Over-Happy\\\" from her Distortion series, acrylic on canvas, 78x100cm, 2021 (courtesy of the artist).\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"“We Danced”\u2014a story by MK Harb\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\",\"name\":\"The Markaz Review\",\"description\":\"Literature and Arts from the Center of the World\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Markaz Review\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2023\\\/08\\\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2023\\\/08\\\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg\",\"width\":473,\"height\":191,\"caption\":\"The Markaz Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"}},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/758d9b2288543198a9404fe97ef472b0\",\"name\":\"MK Harb\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/4eab45e75d8d3dd144bc11a48e87ef736c11d881c1c530f7dac3c7cb6da5d788?s=96&d=mm&r=g3c5dc3ae329416fa9cb9e2d129cf6abe\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/4eab45e75d8d3dd144bc11a48e87ef736c11d881c1c530f7dac3c7cb6da5d788?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/4eab45e75d8d3dd144bc11a48e87ef736c11d881c1c530f7dac3c7cb6da5d788?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"MK Harb\"},\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/author\\\/mkharb\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"\"We Danced\"\u2014a story by MK Harb - The Markaz Review","description":"In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb's latest short story.","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"\"We Danced\"\u2014a story by MK Harb","og_description":"In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb's latest short story.","og_url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/","og_site_name":"The Markaz Review","article_published_time":"2024-07-05T08:06:25+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1200,"height":900,"url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"MK Harb","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"MK Harb","Est. reading time":"17 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/"},"author":{"name":"MK Harb","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/person\/758d9b2288543198a9404fe97ef472b0"},"headline":"“We Danced”\u2014a story by MK Harb","datePublished":"2024-07-05T08:06:25+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/"},"wordCount":3863,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg","keywords":["Beirut","Beirut dance","dance cult","dance therapy","Healing","physical psychotherapy"],"articleSection":["Fiction","short story","TMR 43 \u2022 Summer Fiction '24"],"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/","name":"\"We Danced\"\u2014a story by MK Harb - The Markaz Review","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg","datePublished":"2024-07-05T08:06:25+00:00","description":"In exercises to \u201crelease your inner child,\u201d meditation, or psychotherapy, Beirutis search for mental and physical relief, in MK Harb's latest short story.","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Suzi-Fadel-Nassif-Lebanon-Distortion-series.jpg","width":1200,"height":900,"caption":"Suzi Fadel Nassif (b. Lebanon, based in Dubai), detail from \"We Are Happy But Not Over-Happy\" from her Distortion series, acrylic on canvas, 78x100cm, 2021 (courtesy of the artist)."},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/we-danced-a-story-by-mk-harb\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"“We Danced”\u2014a story by MK Harb"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#website","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/","name":"The Markaz Review","description":"Literature and Arts from the Center of the World","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization","name":"The Markaz Review","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/08\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/08\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg","width":473,"height":191,"caption":"The Markaz Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"}},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/person\/758d9b2288543198a9404fe97ef472b0","name":"MK Harb","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/4eab45e75d8d3dd144bc11a48e87ef736c11d881c1c530f7dac3c7cb6da5d788?s=96&d=mm&r=g3c5dc3ae329416fa9cb9e2d129cf6abe","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/4eab45e75d8d3dd144bc11a48e87ef736c11d881c1c530f7dac3c7cb6da5d788?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/4eab45e75d8d3dd144bc11a48e87ef736c11d881c1c530f7dac3c7cb6da5d788?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"MK Harb"},"url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/author\/mkharb\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/33542","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/354"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=33542"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/33542\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":33605,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/33542\/revisions\/33605"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/33685"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=33542"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=33542"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=33542"},{"taxonomy":"article-category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article-category?post=33542"},{"taxonomy":"article-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article-type?post=33542"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=33542"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}