'It’s dance or die': The ballet dancer forbidden to perform by Islamic State
|
Version 0 of 1. Half a year ago, ballet dancer Ahmad Joudeh was giving dance lessons to orphaned children in war-torn Damascus. Now he has made his debut at the Dutch National Ballet and is studying at the ballet academy in Amsterdam. “It took me a month to fully realise I really am in Amsterdam, and I still can’t believe my luck,” Joudeh says. For years, as the war raged around him and his family, Joudeh - a stateless Palestinian in Syria - had tried to make ends meet by teaching, and had received death threats from Islamic State. When the summons to do three years of military service arrived, the 26-year-old began to believe that this was going to be the end of the dream that he had cradled from childhood. But his life changed radically in August 2016 when a Dutch TV journalist made a documentary about him. In front of the camera Joudeh danced on the rubble that once was the Palestinian refugee camp Yarmouk, where he had grown up. “I did it for the souls of my five family members who were killed there,’’ he says. Soon afterwards he was filmed dancing in the ancient Roman theatre of Palmyra - the site, just a few months earlier, of mass executions by Isis. “Dancing in the Palmyra theatre was my way to fight Isis. It was my way to tell them: you can kill people, but you can’t keep me from dancing. It was a dangerous thing to do, we couldn’t stay there longer than one hour, and it was 50C (122F) in the sun. But I did it because I knew I would never have the chance again. And I was right. Isis have destroyed the theatre now. I cried for two days when I heard the news.” When the documentary was aired on Dutch television, it attracted the attention of Ted Brandsen, the artistic director of the Dutch National Ballet. He decided on the spot to set up a fund called Dance for Peace to enable Joudeh to come to the Netherlands to dance and study. “His story touched me deeply,” Brandsen says. “I was impressed by his sheer willpower to go on dancing, in spite of everything. When at the end of the documentary he said he would be called up for military service, I knew I had to do something. On Monday morning I came into the office and I told our business director: we are going to help this Syrian dancer to come to Amsterdam. And he immediately said: “great idea!” Joudeh not only struggled to survive as a dancer during the Syrian war: he also fought a tough, private war to realise his dream. “My father forbid me to dance,” he says. “Because in our culture, to be a ballet dancer is the worst thing your son can choose to do for a living. He said it was a shame for the family and wanted me to study English or medicine. But I said no, this is my life. I went to dance class secretly. When he found out, he beat me with a wooden stick. He used to beat me really hard. Once he hurt my leg so badly, I couldn’t dance for days. But I never gave in. I said to him: it’s dance or die.” He had these very words tattooed on his neck after he received death threats by Isis. “I will never give up dancing,” he says. “I am prepared to fight all my life for the feeling that dancing gives me. It’s a feeling of freedom. Being a Palestinian refugee, born in a camp, I always felt inferior to other people. But when I dance, I feel like a king.’’ When he was 17, his father threw him out of the house and divorced his mother because she supported him. Nevertheless, Joudeh continued his education at the Enana Dance Theatre and the Higher Institute for Dramatic Arts in Damascus. It took him seven years instead of four to graduate. “I had to support my mother and my younger brother and sister. It wasn’t possible to work and study at the same time. So I had to work as a dancer and teacher one year and then study the next year.’’ His moment of glory came in 2014 when he was invited to join the Arab version of So You Think You Can Dance in Lebanon. “I made it to the semi-final. But then I was told that I couldn’t win, because as a Palestinian I have no nationality. That was a tough blow. But I had had an audience and I had reached hearts, so in a way I was a winner after all. After that I was asked to do a series of choreographies for dance festivals at the Opera House in Syria, which was great.” At the time when the documentary was made, Joudeh was making a living mainly as a dance teacher. In his spare time he taught war orphans and children with Down’s syndrome for free. “And then I received this invitation to come to Amsterdam,’’ he recounts. “I was so surprised! I said to my mother: I am not going, I can’t leave you. But she replied: you are going to leave me anyhow. Either you will go into the army, or you will go to Amsterdam. It’s better for you to follow your dream.’’ He has now danced a small role in a production of Coppélia with the Dutch National Ballet and will soon dance in a Dutch opera company production. The fund that Brandsen set up provides for his ballet education and livelihood. “We hope to raise more funds to be able to help more Syrian artists,’’ Brandsen says. “If you see what happens in Syria, you feel powerless. It’s so good to actually do something, although right now it’s only for one dancer.’’ Recently, Joudeh has visited his father, who is living in an asylum seeker centre in Germany. Father and son hadn’t seen each other for 11 years. “I hated my father for what he had done to me. But being in the west, I wanted to start a new life without hate. So I forgave everyone who tried to keep me from dancing,’’ Joudeh says. “It wasn’t easy to face my father again. I don’t really feel he is my father, to be honest.” As a present he brought his father an oud (Arab lute). “He used to be a musician, so this was my way of saying: you tried to keep me from my art, but I am giving you yours back. It was the first time in my life we hugged. My father was crying all the time. He told me he is proud of me now, that he is sorry for what he did.” Joudeh is now putting all his energy in his studies, he says. “I want to show that I deserve the chance I’ve been given. The responsibility is huge. I am doing more than my best. No time to be sick, to go out, to have fun. No time to do anything but dancing. Because I am the only hope for my students and for my family in Syria. They count on me now. They say: the only good news we hear is your news.’’ Join our community of development professionals and humanitarians. Follow @GuardianGDP on Twitter. |