Embracing Kizomba in Casablanca's Luxurious Setting
At the Royal Hideaway hotel in Casablanca, a lavish venue transformed for an evening of Latin and African dances, around thirty couples glide gracefully between tables, their bodies pressed closely together. The atmosphere is intimate, with each dancer occupying barely a square meter, their feet remaining firmly on the ground as they execute short, rhythmic steps. Those who are not dancing lounge on plush sofas, eagerly awaiting the beat that will compel them to join in. Regular attendees refer to these gatherings as SBK nights, named after the trio of dances that dominate the scene: salsa, bachata, and kizomba. Khaoula Abou El Hassan, a radiant 29-year-old from Casablanca, takes on the role of master of ceremonies, as she does every time. She passionately teaches kizomba, a couple's dance originating from Angola, which she describes as an 'African tango' where two bodies become one, characterized by a grounded stance and fluid, hip-driven movements.
Breaking Barriers and Building Community
Khaoula's journey into the world of dance is a tale of serendipity, tracing back ten years to her study abroad in China, where she stumbled upon Latin dance parties frequented by expatriates. Although she had taken salsa lessons for two years in France, she had never dared to dance outside the classroom, fearing she would not impress strangers. However, her partners that evening were amazed by her natural ability, which she had never recognized in herself. 'Culturally, in traditional Moroccan and African dances, we are a bit more unlocked in our hips, which can impress those who are not used to it,' she explains, crediting this newfound confidence to the fresh perspective she gained from her international experiences.
Latin and African couple dances made their way to Morocco in the early 2000s, brought back by an urban, affluent clientele who had discovered them abroad. Upon returning, they formed small, exclusive circles to practice these dances, which were often limited by high entry fees and the discretion sought by practitioners. Many still prefer to keep their dancing a secret from colleagues or family, as Khaoula notes. 'A professional woman, married to a non-dancer, might want to keep this part of her life hidden from her coworkers or in-laws,' she observes. For a long time, Casablanca and Rabat each had only one dance school, perhaps two at most. However, the tide began to change as street dancers trained in hip-hop outside of formal schools were welcomed into these circles, valued for their technique rather than their backgrounds. Within a decade, new schools emerged in various neighborhoods, prices became more accessible, and a burgeoning middle class began to participate. Now, the typical student profile is that of a young professional newly relocated to Casablanca, eager to meet new people beyond their work environment.
Initially drawn to dance as a hobby, Khaoula's path was originally aimed at a career in business. After studying commerce in France in 2014, she needed to choose an extracurricular activity, hesitating between theater and salsa, ultimately opting for dance out of curiosity. Years of study followed, including a double degree between France and China, a stint in Taiwan, and learning Mandarin. 'I was always racing against the clock,' she recalls of the period when dance was merely a weekly pastime. However, it evolved into a mental sanctuary at the end of her studies, becoming the only activity that coaxed her out of the house. There, she discovered a space where she 'didn't have to play a role,' apart from that of a dancer.
The COVID-19 pandemic, which shuttered dance venues, forced her to confront her doubts. She contemplated staying in Paris, where kizomba had found a second European home, but also where it was challenging to carve out a niche. Ultimately, she returned to Morocco five years ago with no clear plans, merely suggesting a temporary hiatus to family. Shortly after her arrival in Casablanca, she met Cyril, a young Senegalese man of Cape Verdean descent who sought a partner to teach kizomba and had grown up dancing it with his mother and grandmother in Senegal long before taking formal lessons. This connection solidified her decision to share the Afro-Lusophone dance, as she felt more legitimate with a partner who 'carries the culture within him.'
Yet, introducing kizomba to an audience that was largely unaware of it posed its own challenges. Born in Angola in the 1980s from the local semba rhythm, kizomba was influenced by Caribbean zouk as it spread to Europe through Angolans in Lisbon and later Paris, where European instructors somewhat detached it from its original cultural roots. The dance's groundedness and hip movements, unfamiliar to Western choreographic traditions, have garnered a reputation for sensuality that Khaoula finds contentious. To her, the movement is neither codified nor provocative; it is simply 'natural and human,' becoming questionable only under the gaze of those unfamiliar with it. To sustain a living from dance in Morocco means not relying solely on it. 'It's very complicated to make a living only from one thing, whether it be performing or teaching. One must diversify, within dance or outside of it. My most stable income comes from teaching, but I need other daytime activities to survive,' she explains, referring to her work in cultural management, among other pursuits.
Alongside financial uncertainties lies the social burden of the term 'dancer.' When she introduces herself as a dancer, people often inquire if she practices ballet or belly dancing, the only references most have. 'There are so many other dance styles that people don't think of. It's important to show that one can be a dancer in different ways,' she emphasizes. Even the term itself carries varying weights depending on the language. It passes easily in French and English, but in Arabic, it carries connotations she is wary of, having learned to anticipate reactions based on her audience. People are often surprised that a woman with an extensive education and fluent in Mandarin would choose to teach dance. She garners more curiosity than reproach, yet the misunderstanding persists. Khaoula does not frame it as a battle; she believes that simply practicing her profession openly can contribute to shifting perceptions.
As reported by maroc-hebdo.com.
