The last dance

January 12, 2025

From Granada to Gilgit-Baltistan, dance speaks the universal language of emotion

The last dance


I

t was March 2009. I’ll reveal the name of the city I was in later to give you a chance first to guess it. The evening had descended swiftly. I was waiting in a queue to buy an entry ticket to a club located in a narrow underground cave renowned for its dance show. The receptionist asked me to choose a complimentary drink with my 10-euro ticket. I requested a glass of orange juice. Most of the people ahead of me had asked for wine or beer. The young receptionist seemed surprised by my choice. The South Korean girl behind me too chuckled in amazement at my selection in the club dance context.

I wasn’t particularly bothered. I was lost instead in thoughts of this beautiful city and its incredible history. I had come here after seven years of reading about the culture and history of its people. The dance I was about to witness is called Flamenco – the dance of the gypsies. It is also described as the dance of the dead and believed to liberate one from the burdens of misery and suffering.

The hall was dimly lit. The partial illumination seemed to supplement a sense of drama and suspense. The audience buzzed with anticipation, eager to witness the dance moves up close in a cave where gypsies once gathered. The troupe soon took to the stage and a hush fell over the hall. The evening, we were promised, would be unforgettable. Most tourists visiting this city (you’ve likely guessed by now: Granada) come to see two iconic attractions: the Alhambra and Flamenco.

The last dance

Granada, one of the most renowned cities in Andalusia (the region in Spain that was under Muslim rule for nearly 800 years), is celebrated for its vibrant cultural heritage. Flamenco, a central feature of this heritage, involves four key performers, each with a distinct role and title. The male dancer is known as the Bailaor and while the female dancer is the Bailaora. The person responsible for the rhythmic hand clapping is called Palmero. The singers are referred to as Cantaor (male) and Cantaora (female). The Flamenco guitarist is called the Tocaor.

A Flamenco performance comprises three main elements: Cante (the singing), Toque (the guitar playing) and Baile (the dancing). Together, these parts create an electrifying display of artistry and passion.

The room was dimly lit as the audience waited anxiously for the performance to begin. A few minutes after I had arrived in the hall, the troupe took to the stage, each member assuming their position. At the centre stood a smartly dressed man. He took a deep breath, scanned the audience, and then glanced at the Cantaor, signalling the start of the spectacle.

The music began. The clapping established a rhythm, casting an almost hypnotic spell. The dancer stretched his arms, curled his fingers and tapped his feet. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he turned his entire body in a way that left the audience astonished. The performance was mesmerizing, particularly the rapid tapping of heels; the graceful turns of his neck; the delicate curling of fingers; and the sweeping movements of his arms. Every motion was rhythmic like a poem and passionate like a lament. It was a story of unbearable anguish.

The last dance


Life is diverse… Its inherent diversity is what makes it so captivating – just like Flamenco.

It seemed that the dancer carried a deep sorrow. The tale he needed to tell was about deep pain. The Cantaor’s haunting voice followed the dancer’s every move, while the clapping created an immersive rhythm that stirred a shared sense of loss among the audience. The Tocaor was not just playing the guitar; he was beating it like a drum, producing a sound both enchanting and raw. The air was thick with melancholy. The ullay (ole?) calls of the singer were almost unbearable, piercing not just the ears but the hearts as well. I realised that I was witnessing something truly extraordinary.

According to legend, after the re-conquest of Spain by the Christians, the gypsies were persecuted and given a cruel choice: renounce their beliefs or face death by fire. Many chose the latter. On their final night, they embraced their end by dancing in the darkness. It was their last tribute to their cultural awareness, a final memory and an enduring farewell.

The dance was soon in full swing, the clapping growing more intense with every moment. I could hear what sounded like a war cry. It was a battle where one side had nothing and the other wielded power. Flamenco is rich in expression and steeped in misery and sorrow. The dancer conveyed the story with such force that everyone in the audience could grasp its essence, even if they didn’t understand the words. It was history brought to life through emotion, shaped by people of different faiths. Flamenco’s origins are also attributed to Muslim artisans and their music.

The last dance

On a cold evening in November 2024, I found myself recalling that night in the club in Granada. This time, I was at the Gilgit-Baltistan pavilion during the annual cultural festival in Islamabad. A dancer moved to the beat of a drum, his hands and feet in perfect rhythm, his shoulders shaking in vibrant energy. Yet the expressions on his face told a different story.

This was not the performance of someone dancing on the last night before death and there was no expression of agony or irretrievable loss. Instead, it was a celebration, a portrayal of joy. Here was a dancer awaiting a tomorrow with the hope of seeing his lover. It was the antithesis of Flamenco, yet equally powerful. One spoke of loss, the other of hope. Life is diverse. Different people get to experience vastly different lives. The diversity is what makes it so captivating – just like Flamenco.


The writer teaches at the National University of Sciences and Technology, Islamabad, Pakistan and likes to travel

The last dance