Many migrant Moroccan women encounter abuse in Spain.
Walking through the main street in Ceuta, Spain, I followed the sound of music that had spilled into my hotel room. Just when I was about to give up, I spotted the source. A little plaza with a crowd of people. They were holding hands in a circle and dancing.
Unsure but curious, I joined in on the next song. Linking hands with women, I followed the simple footwork: eight steps in, eight steps out, two twirls, a step to the right, and repeat!
Though I had no idea what I was participating in, I was moved. Everyone was smiling, there was no pressure to do it right (believe me, I messed up more times than I’d like to admit), and there was an overwhelming sense of peace. It really was a perfect moment.
At the end of the song, as people dispersed, I stayed behind, mustering up the courage to approach the woman who had led the circle. It was my first day in Spain, and though I knew I was here to interview strangers, I hadn’t expected this encounter. I finally walked over and introduced myself: “Hola, soy una periodista.” (“Hello, I am a journalist.”)
It was the first time I had ever called myself a journalist. I liked the way the words sat with me.
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I was immediately received with warmth by Presentación and her friends, all regulars of the dance circle. They invited me for some tapas, where I learned about baile circular, or circular dancing. Presentación, the head of the dance circle community in Ceuta, told me that the dance circle is one of the oldest forms of human art (think of cave paintings of people holding hands around a fire).
Somewhere along the way, the practice got lost. It wasn’t until the 1980s that German ballet teacher Bernhard Wosien revived the practice. “The message is simple, but powerful,” Presentación said. “To connect with oneself and connect with others.” After a few hours of great food and conversation, I ended my night with a full stomach and a full heart.
Baile circular set the tone for the rest of my reporting trip.
In preparing to speak to survivors of domestic violence, I was expecting the sadness. I was expecting the heavy silences, to sit with another’s pain as if it were my own. I was expecting the tears, both hers and mine, hidden behind a Kleenex, always ready at hand.
What I was not expecting were the moments of joy. The shared laughter as we stumbled into a game of charades, momentarily giving up on the language that was neither of our native tongues. The stable flow of conversations over a cup of mint tea. The growing feeling of comfort and familiarity in one another’s presence as the days went on.
At the end of each interview, there was an unspoken gratitude in each of our gazes, thankful to hear and to have been heard.
In two weeks, I fell in love with Ceuta. With its Mediterranean charm. With its endless supply of olives and fried fish. With its deep orange and yellow buildings. But most of all, with the open-armed embrace of its people. A kind of people who invite you into the circle. To dance, to share, to connect.
