In the Pomegranate Fields: Where Science, Dance and Prayer Meet

In light of the events that have profoundly affected so many lives, I dedicate this piece to those who have experienced loss and pain. May we find healing and strength together in the power of community and connection.

I still remember her voice full of disbelief:
“Are you out of your mind?” my mother yelled over the telephone.
“Yes. And I am staying out!” I yelled back before slamming down the payphone. Next thing, I was in the woods, back where I had spent the previous night. Here, the only force that hit me came from the sound waves. While dancing with strangers, I felt more connected than ever. Surrounded by trees, colorful decorations, and friendly faces, I felt safe. Here, every drop in the music lifted me a little higher, to a realm I did not even know existed—a sphere where my light could shine like the stars in the open sky above me.

My first outdoor rave was not a party; it was a healing experience. “Best and most inexpensive therapy,” I wrote in my journal at the time. It was the year 2001 that I first stepped into the world of outdoor raves, unaware of how profoundly it would impact my life. In the aftermath of emotional abuse, a broken heart, and shattered self-esteem, a night of dance put together what had previously been ripped apart. All smiles, I returned to my parents’ home, yet my mother’s voice was filled with contempt. “The Easter bunny does not come to people who behave like that!” she snapped. At twenty-one years old, I did not believe in Easter bunnies anymore. I shrugged at her “punishment.” My discovery was bittersweet nonetheless: I had found my holy grail, something sacred, but all I was told was to clean my muddy shoes.

Like many protective parents, my mother envisioned a group of drunken and drugged up youths, partying in the wild instead of spending the holiday with their families. She feared this would mark the beginning of the end; her daughter soon lined up with the other “lost souls” of the town we lived in—the ones whose parents were pitied and felt whispers behind their backs. In actuality, this party marked the beginning of a healing journey, one during which I would make peace with my body and mind.

A body I had already learned to despise and criticize. A mind that tormented me with existential questions like “Which rules do I follow? Could I lose this game? Is there something to gain? What if I lose?” At twenty-one years young, I experienced existential angst, grappling with questions no adult had sufficient answers for. I struggled in silence, too ashamed to share my turmoil with my parents, whom I did not want to burden.

The biggest burden, however, came from the following question: “Can I trust other people’s reflections about myself?” The priest’s sermons mirrored guilt and shame, casting me as a sinner, so much so that a man named Jesus was crucified for my sins. My romantic relationship reflected that I was the reason for rage, jealousy, and loss of control. But at this party, things were different: I was worthy of gifts, worthy of respect, worthy of love.

Which data was I supposed to trust? Which one reflected the real me? When I danced, my body and mind moved in harmony, and the inner conflicts faded away. Through movement, I could express what I could not put into words. I felt soft and strong, childlike and enlightened, one and many. When I danced, the contradictions in life could coexist. My emotions passed like waves, but my inner ocean was of immeasurable depth. Dancing, I was more than body and mind. Dancing, I was soul.

Little did I know that I would make this form of expression my profession, become a dance teacher, and research the phenomenon in the future. Slowly but surely, I came across scientific findings confirming what I felt all along: dance is a source of healing. Over the next quarter of a century, I devoured articles that confirmed my experience and incorporated newfound knowledge into my work. Teaching became a way to share the dance’s power with others.

The most valuable data came from my students. “My boss knows he can’t keep me working longer hours on Tuesdays because I told him Tuesdays I go to therapy,” a young man confided in me. I cried happy tears that night. “Here I can be my imperfect self” and “It feels like going on a mini-vacation” were other feedback I received. These observations translate to “mindfulness” and “space for vulnerability” in more methodical terms. My synchronized choreographies always had space for individuality, which also furthered creativity and self-esteem.

Ultimately, my mother’s curiosity was bigger than her prejudice, and she asked to join me at a day rave, where she was blown away: the predominantly young people welcomed and celebrated her like a respected, elderly member of a tribe. It healed something in her as well—perhaps the fear that everyone had an ulterior motive, trying to trick her, take advantage of her, or steal from her at every opportunity. I know she learned something new about the youth that day. And the youth learned that being of age doesn’t mean being old.

A quarter of a century later, I still cherish raves and vividly recall my first outdoor experience in Israel, somewhere in a pomegranate field. I remember dancing with a young girl who smiled at my (future) husband and said, “You remind me of my father!” We burst into laughter, realizing we felt so young and yet were perceived to be ‘the elderly.’ I found myself in a different country, with different people, but the joy of dancing with others was the same. To me, bodies rising into a crescendo and release are humanity’s most beautiful shared activity. And while Switzerland and Israel could not be more contrasting, the experience was surprisingly alike. Of course, the temperature was different, but the warmth of the people was the same. In these moments a shared humanity transcended age and culture.

Then the 7th of October happened, and the world drastically changed. The night before, out of sheer luck, my partner and I decided to stay in Tel Aviv. After dancing all night in a club, we woke up to sirens. He took my hand and guided me to the safe room. Soon, images of the NOVA festival flooded the TV. I could not believe my eyes; it was so surreal and still is sometimes. Days went by, the images grew worse, and deaths were announced. How in the world could the most peace-loving people be slaughtered in the name of freedom? It will never make sense to me. Locked in, I put on my headphones once a day and danced the pain away. It was my way of not losing my mind.

One day, I saw an interview with Shani Louk’s father, who said he had once asked his daughter what they were “doing at these parties.” Her answer was, “Praying.” I remember bursting into tears. In the midst of all the sadness, his question and Shani Louk’s answer healed something in me. Here was a parent who understood that “We will dance again” was not just about partying; it was about praying and healing.

During the past year, whenever I felt waves of emotions taking over and weighing me down, I put on my favorite tracks and danced, accompanied by the echoes of my early experiences. It gave me comfort and hope, a lifeline for moments in which the feeling of utter helplessness became unbearable. I would dance down Rothschild, look at all the faces, and “secretly” take the hostages along. The ritual was my form of prayer. What a surprise to realize that on Simchat Torah, the Jewish holiday, people are invited to joyfully dance—a holiday that marks a new beginning while it also reflects on timelessness.

For a non-Jew who used the power and prayer of dance for so many years, this was revelatory. I realized: I don’t need to dance again; I just needed to keep on dancing. It gives me the strenght to work towards change, no matter how stuck the situation seems. Today, I embrace it as a prayer, free of the fear of being ridiculed, held in the quiet confidence that I am among those who understand—not just at a rave in a pomegranate field but on any given day. As it is so simply and wonderfully expressed in the Hebrew Bible, Ecclesiastes 3:4:

“A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”