I write this as International Dance Day is celebrated around the world, this year away from the dance floors I have grown to love. With the coronavirus pandemic abruptly confining us to our homes, the world’s clubs and dance halls have had to close their doors until further notice.

In Dubai, the enforced lockdown began around mid-March. Since then, my weekends have been taken away from me. This is the longest I have gone without dancing, and I really miss it.

I have been told I started dancing before I could walk. It must have been in front of the TV, copying what was going on in a music video that was playing at the time. I grew up with the impression that it was culturally unacceptable for people to dance, unless it was at a celebration, like a wedding. Dancing otherwise holds a level of shame for some inexplicable reason.

Luckily, I grew up in a household that did not impose such limiting views on me. My sisters took me wherever they went, and we danced together at alternative concerts and parties without being judged by the people around us. I think the world would be a better place if people danced more often.

When people ask me where I learned how to dance, I always say London. I wouldn’t say it is where I “learned” how to dance — I am by no means a trained dancer, nor have I ever taken any classes. But it was in London that I began feeling comfortable with the idea of going out on my own for the sole purpose of dancing, without feeling like a loner.

That was where I truly found the joy of dancing by myself in a crowd of strangers. Shutting my eyes and hearing nothing but music, allowing my body to take control and move to the beat, escaping the world for a few short hours.

At concerts and music festivals, street parades and Prides, and at rooftop and basement parties, dance floors have been my classrooms; the DJs, my teachers.

You build up a lot courage on a dance floor. I become a different person. I pick a corner closest to the DJ booth and make it my space for the next few hours. Allowing the music to consume me, I become slowly absorbed in the rhythm until the DJ builds enough momentum for people to start feeling it and get on their feet.

When that happens, it feels like a dormant energy finally awakens — I begin to sing along to every verse of every song. I smile. I feel light, high, elevated. I shuffle, flex and move.

I dance like no one is watching.

But they are. They clap and cheer. They come closer, asking questions like, “Where are you from?” or “Where did you learn to dance like that?” For those few hours on the dance floor, I feed off the music and the energy of those around me. We are unified, touched by music; sharing this moment all together. A heightened state of mind.

With the sudden global lockdown, I’ve noticed how people have adapted to dancing on Zoom parties or Instagram Live in their homes. It seems some people won’t let the pandemic stop them. But dancing in a virtual space just isn’t for me. There is something missing. I’ve generally disliked the lack of personal space on a dance floor, my movement restricted by all the people sardined around me.

But, in retrospect, I miss the crowds. The sweaty proximity to strangers. The heat emanating from overcharged bodies. Will it ever be the same once this pandemic is over? Will we ever go back to being close to each other on a dance floor?

Dear dance floor,

I look forward to reuniting when the time is right. Until then, I can only reminisce and thank you for all the times you have made me feel free. You have given me a safe space when others have not, and introduced me to music that is now the soundtrack to my life.

Over the years, friends and loved ones have lost interest in joining me for a night out dancing. But you welcomed me with open arms, even when I was flying solo.

For that, dance floor, I am ever grateful. And our reunion cannot come soon enough.

Khalid Mezaina – an illustrator and textile artist from Dubai. Khalid illustrates observations, memories and imaginations—ranging from his curiosity for regional and historical talismanic practices, to observations on Dubai in a constant state of transformation. He also makes work inspired by things that bring him joy—from dance and pop music, his fascination with ceremonial textiles and costumes, and love for comic books.