Belly dance has always been more than just movement; it is a language, a vessel for emotions, and a way to tell stories that words alone cannot capture. Through belly dance, I have discovered the subtle power of every motion, the way each gesture can express thoughts and feelings that often remain unspoken. It is a dance of the body, the heart, and the mind.

When I perform belly dance, I do not merely follow steps. I immerse myself in the rhythm, allowing it to guide my inner world into motion. Recently, I discovered a song that perfectly complements this experience: “Ekhtayaraty” by Ahmed Saad. Its melodies carry a mixture of longing and release, and the subtle rhythm naturally inspires my belly dance movements. Each sway of the hips, lift of the hands, and gentle contraction of the torso seems to echo the emotional undercurrents of the music.

One of the aspects I cherish most in belly dance is how it allows me to confront and transform my thoughts and emotions. Life often leaves us carrying feelings we cannot fully express. Through belly dance, I find a space where those thoughts can be acknowledged and released. A lift of the hand, a turn of the body, or a wave of the arms can signify acceptance, surrender, or the deliberate act of letting go. In combination with Ahmed Saad’s haunting melodies, the dance becomes both personal and universal—a shared emotional journey.

The beauty of belly dance lies in its duality. On one hand, it is intricate, precise, and technically demanding. On the other, it is free, expressive, and deeply personal. Fusion belly dance allows me to blend traditional movements with my own interpretations, infusing each performance with authenticity and individuality. The result is choreography that is visually captivating and emotionally resonant.

Emotions flow like water in belly dance. There is a rhythm to the release of tension, a cadence to letting go of lingering thoughts, and a grace to acknowledging one’s inner state. While the audience may see only the surface—the swirls of the skirt, the sway of the torso, the lift of the hands—beneath that lies an intimate conversation between the dancer and her inner world. Every movement reflects an internal narrative, now beautifully paired with the music that inspires it.

In creating belly dance choreography, I often think of each movement as a sentence, each gesture as a word. Together, they form a story that communicates without speech. Ahmed Saad’s “Ekhtayaraty” adds another layer, guiding the emotional phrasing and intensity of each motion. The music enhances the pauses, the shifts, and the subtle dynamics that mirror life’s rhythms—moments of stillness followed by motion, tension followed by release. This interplay between control and freedom creates a rich tapestry of emotion for both performer and viewer.

Sharing belly dance with others has always been a rewarding experience. Watching someone connect to the subtlety of a gesture, feeling the emotional weight carried in a turn, or simply being drawn into the movement is profoundly fulfilling. Dance, paired with music, bridges gaps between people, transcending language, culture, and personal experience. When the body expresses what the heart feels, supported by music, it invites others to feel alongside, creating a shared space of understanding and emotion.

For me, belly dance is not just about perfecting technique but cultivating presence. It is about being fully aware of the sensations, emotions, and stories that emerge through movement. It is about embracing vulnerability and allowing it to flow outward, visible to both self and audience. Every performance is an act of courage and honesty, a chance to transform personal introspection into shared expression, with music acting as a gentle guide.

Ultimately, belly dance reminds us that release is not loss, but freedom. Letting go of thoughts, tensions, and emotional weight through movement opens space for clarity and growth. The arms lift, the body sways, the heart opens—and in that moment, belly dance and music merge to become a living expression of release. It is a journey toward acceptance, a celebration of the emotional landscapes that define our humanity.

Through the fusion of traditional belly dance, personal expression, and the evocative melodies of Ahmed Saad’s “Ekhtayaraty”, each performance tells a story that is simultaneously mine and universal. The intricate rhythms, deliberate gestures, and fluidity of motion invite both dancer and observer to reflect on their own experiences. In the end, belly dance is not just entertainment; it is an art form that channels emotion, transforms energy, and illuminates the power of moving through life with intention, grace, and music.


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Belly dance, or Raqs Sharqi, has always been an evolving art form, blending ancient traditions with contemporary sounds. Every few years, a track emerges that captures the collective heartbeat of the dance community. Recently, that track is "3asal Ya Nas" by the iconic Egyptian artist Ruby. Since its release, the song has become a global sensation, filling dance studios and social media feeds with its infectious energy. But what makes this song so special for dancers? Is it the driving Maqsum beat, or perhaps the "honeyed" charisma that Ruby herself exudes? In this article, we delve deep into the essence of this modern Egyptian masterpiece and explore how to translate its rich textures into the language of motion.

The Artist and the Vibe: Who is Ruby?

To dance to a song, one must first understand its source. Ruby (Rania Hussein) is a pioneer of modern Egyptian pop. Known for her sultry vocals and effortless "cool girl" persona, she has always challenged the boundaries of Middle Eastern entertainment. "3asal Ya Nas" (literally meaning "Honey, People") represents a mature yet playful return to her roots. The song isn't just about melody; it’s about a specific Egyptian concept of Dalaa—a mixture of coquettishness, grace, and feminine power. Unlike the heavy classical compositions of the past, this track offers a "Minimalist Pop" feel that requires a dancer to be both precise and relaxed. When you hear Ruby’s voice, you aren't just listening to a singer; you are experiencing a modern Cairo vibe that is chic, confident, and unapologetically sweet.

Deconstructing the Rhythm: The Power of Maqsum

At the heart of "3asal Ya Nas" lies the Maqsum rhythm, the backbone of Egyptian folk and pop music. For a belly dancer, the Maqsum is home. It’s a 4/4 time signature characterized by its "Dum" and "Tek" sounds that provide a perfect canvas for hip hits and shimmies. However, Ruby’s version has a crisp, synthesized clarity that demands a different kind of muscular control.

In this song, the percussion isn't cluttered. This "space" between the beats is where the magic happens. As dancers, we must resist the urge to over-dance every second. Instead, we use the staccato Teks for sharp hip drops and save the Dums for heavy, grounded movements. The transition into the chorus brings a swell in the arrangement, inviting larger traveling steps and expressive arm movements. Understanding the music theory behind Arabic rhythms is essential for any dancer looking to move beyond simple choreography into true artistic expression.

The Art of "3asal": Choreographing the Sweetness

"Beauty needs no explanation"—this sentiment is the guiding light for choreographing to this track. The movements should feel like liquid gold: viscous, glowing, and smooth.

The Shimmy Layers: Because the beat is so consistent, layering a relaxed Egyptian shimmy over a slow undulation creates a beautiful contrast that mirrors Ruby’s breathy vocals.

Isolation and Accent: The song features subtle electronic accents. Using "chest pops" or "shoulder shimmies" during these moments adds a modern flair that connects the traditional dance to the pop genre.

The "Dalaa" Factor: This is the most crucial element. It’s in the tilt of the head, the softness of the hands, and the playfulness of the eyes. To dance "3asal Ya Nas" is to flirt with the music. It’s not about how many turns you can do; it’s about how much soul you can pack into a single look.

Conclusion: Why We Dance

Ultimately, sharing a dance to "3asal Ya Nas" on platforms like Instagram or TikTok is about more than just "going viral." It’s about joining a global conversation of culture and creativity. This song reminds us that belly dance is a living, breathing art form. It can be ancient, and it can be as fresh as a 2024 pop hit. When we step onto the floor and the first notes of the Tabla kick in, we aren't just performers - we are the bridge between the music and the audience. Whether you are a professional or a beginner, let this song remind you to dance with your heart, move with confidence, and remember that sometimes, the most beautiful things in life - like a perfect melody or a flawless hip drop - really do need no explanation.


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There is a specific kind of magic that happens when you stop "performing" a dance and start "inhabiting" it. For me, that shift happened recently with a classic Egyptian track we all know and love: 3asal Ya Nas.

In the world of Oriental dance, we often talk about Tarab, that ecstatic state of emotional soul-connection. But before we get to the soul, we have to deal with the body—and the endless ways we choose to present it to the world.

The Many Versions of a Song, The Many Versions of Me

We’ve all heard dozens of versions of 3asal Ya Nas. Some are heavy with orchestral grandeur; others are light, poppy, and synthesised. As I stood in my studio, this specific version playing (the one you see in my latest video), I realized that the song’s evolution mirrors our own.

As dancers, we are often told there is a "correct" way to frame a hip drop or a "traditional" way to carry our arms. But the truth is, my dance today is not my dance from three years ago. There are so many ways to express who I am, and this particular movement is just one of them. It’s not the only version of me, but it is the most honest version of me right now.

Finding the "Honey" in the Rhythm

The title 3asal Ya Nas translates roughly to "Honey, oh people." It’s an invitation to sweetness. When I first started learning this dance, I focused on the "honey"—the gooey, slow, taxsim-like movements. I thought being "sweet" meant being soft.

But as I dove deeper into the musicality of this version, I noticed the sharp, crisp accents underneath the melody. It’s like the texture of raw honey—it’s smooth, but it has a crystalline structure. To really enter the rhythm, I had to stop counting "1, 2, 3, 4" and start feeling the "push and pull" of the instrumentation.

In this dance, I don't go for the most complex shimmies or the highest kicks. Instead, I’m looking for the space between the notes. It’s in those tiny micro-seconds of silence where the real personality of a dancer lives. Are you rushing to the next beat, or are you savoring the one you’re in?

Beyond the "Instructor Voice"

One of the reasons I wanted to share this piece is to step away from the "teacher" persona. The dance world is flooded with tutorials and "how-to" guides. Those are valuable, but sometimes they strip away the joy.

I’m not here to tell you to "tuck your pelvis" or "engage your core." I’m here as a fellow dancer who struggled to find her own voice in a sea of traditions. When I’m in this costume—the one that makes me feel like a queen—I’m not thinking about my technique. I’m thinking about how the fabric feels against my skin as I turn. I’m thinking about the way the light catches the beads. I’m thinking about how this version of the song makes me want to be bold, rather than just pretty.

Why Musicality is Personal

For my fellow dancers who care deeply about musicality: you know that feeling when you hear a transition in the music and your body reacts before your brain does? That’s what I’m chasing.

In 3asal Ya Nas, the melody is repetitive in a hypnotic way. The challenge isn't to do a different move every time the phrase repeats. The challenge is to find a different version of yourself within that same phrase. Maybe the first time it’s a flirtatious glance; the second time, it’s a grounded, earthy hip accent.

This is what I mean by "so many ways to express who I am." My dance is a living, breathing dialogue with the music. It’s not a monologue I’ve memorized. It is the art of being present.

Final Thoughts: Embrace Your Multiplicity

If there is one thing I’ve learned from this practice, it’s that we don’t have to be just one thing. You can be the elegant Oriental dancer one day and the gritty, street-style Shaabi dancer the next. You can be a queen in your studio and a student of the rhythm forever.

Thank you for witnessing this moment of my journey. I hope it inspires you to look at your favorite classic track—whatever it may be—and find a new way to express your own sweetness.

Which version of yourself are you bringing to the dance floor today?


#凱西CATHY

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The month of February has a certain magic in the air. As the winter chill begins to fade, replaced by the soft warmth of early spring, our hearts naturally lean towards stories of romance and youthful crush. This year, I found the perfect rhythm to match this fluttering feeling: TWS’s ‘Overdrive.’ .

If you’ve been following the K-pop scene lately, you know that TWS (Twenty Forty Seven) has redefined the concept of "Boyhood Pop." Their music isn't just about catchy beats; it’s about that raw, sparkling energy of being young and in love. As Valentine’s Day approaches, I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate the season of love than by sharing my dance cover of the now-viral "Aegyo Dance" (撒嬌舞) from their hit track, Overdrive.

The Sound of a Racing Heart: Why 'Overdrive' is a Valentine’s Essential

There’s something undeniably nostalgic yet fresh about Overdrive. From the moment the funky guitar riff kicks in, you’re transported to a scene from a coming-of-age movie. It captures that exact moment when a crush goes into "overdrive" - when your heart beats too fast, and your emotions are running at full speed.

In the world of K-pop choreography, we often see powerful, high-energy movements. But what makes the Overdrive choreography so special—and why it’s the ultimate Valentine’s vibe - is its playfulness. The "Aegyo" (cute) elements of the dance are subtle, charming, and incredibly sincere. It’s not just about showing off skills; it’s about expressing the awkward, sweet, and bashful side of falling for someone.

Creating the Aesthetic: A Story Within a Dance

When I decided to film this cover a week before Valentine’s Day, I wanted it to be more than just a dance video. I wanted it to feel like a "Pre-Valentine" gift to my followers. To achieve that minimalist and aesthetic vibe, I focused on light, airy tones and a soft-focus lens to mimic the feeling of a daydream.

Dancing to TWS requires a specific kind of "lightness." You have to balance the precision of Urban Dance with the breezy attitude of Boyhood Pop. Every time I hit the chorus - the part everyone calls the "Aegyo Dance" - I couldn't help but smile. That’s the power of TWS’s music; it forces you to feel the joy it radiates.

Breaking Down the 'Aegyo' Dance Style

For those of you looking to try this challenge, the key is in the details. The "撒嬌舞" (Aegyo Dance) isn't just about the hand gestures; it's about the eye contact and the timing. Here are a few tips to master the TWS style for your Valentine's Reels:
1.The "Boyhood" Bounce: Keep your knees light. The bounce should feel natural, like you’re walking on air.
2.Facial Expressions: This is 80% of the dance. Imagine you’re looking at your crush. A little bit of shyness goes a long way!
3.Clean Transitions: Even though it’s a "cute" dance, TWS’s choreography is remarkably clean. Keep your lines sharp but your energy soft.

A Special Early Valentine’s Treat for You

I’ve shared this dance on my Instagram Reels, YouTube Shorts, and Facebook, but I wanted to write this blog post to go deeper into why this song resonates with me so much.

"Early Valentine’s special left here, just in case 💝" - that was the caption I chose for my video. It’s a reminder that love doesn't always have to be a grand, dramatic gesture. Sometimes, it’s just a song, a simple dance, and a wish for someone to smile.

Whether you are celebrating Valentine’s Day with a partner, with friends, or practicing some much-needed self-love this year, I hope the energy of Overdrive brings a little extra spark to your week. TWS reminds us that life is better when we let our hearts run a little wild.

Join the Conversation

Are you as obsessed with TWS as I am? What’s your favorite part of the Overdrive choreography? If you haven't seen my cover yet, head over to my social media channels to catch the full "Aegyo Dance" vibe! Let’s count down to February 14th together with music that makes our hearts race.


#凱西CATHY

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There’s something about “Howeh El Hob” by Adham Nabulsi that makes me pause. Not pause in the sense of stopping to think, but a pause that pulls you in, that makes the outside world melt away. The rhythm starts quietly, almost teasingly, and before I know it, I’m already swaying, letting my body find its own answers.

It’s Arabic pop, but it’s not just pop - it has these little flickers, these sparks of melody that curl around your chest and shoulders, coaxing subtle movements you didn’t plan. At first, I just listened, letting the micro beats sink in, feeling the pauses between the instruments, the breaths in the vocals. Those tiny spaces - the rests, the flickers of silence - are where the dance really begins for me.

When I start moving, I'm not thinking about technique or form. I'm thinking about touch, about timing, about how each flicker of the drum or shimmer of the melody lands in my body. My hips answer the pulse, but my chest and shoulders are the ones really having the conversation. Sometimes a note bends and my hands follow, not because I planned it, but because they want to.

I first discovered "Howeh El Hob" by Adham Nabulsi one quiet evening, headphones on, and immediately the song whispered possibilities. The music has a conversation with itself: a drum hits, a melody rises, and suddenly there's a pause. That pause - it's the part that makes me stop, breathe, and let the next movement arrive naturally. It's not about showing off what I can do; it's about letting the music tell me what it wants me to do. There's a freedom in that surrender, a space where the dance and the song feel inseparable.

Musicality isn't always obvious in Arabic pop to the casual listener. The accents can be subtle, the beat may shift unexpectedly, and the vocal runs float above the rhythm. That's what I love. I have to really listen, really feel, to know where I am. Sometimes I step softly into a pause, sometimes I exaggerate a flick or roll just to honor a note that touched me. There's no right or wrong; there's just the moment and what the music inspires in me.

I often get asked how I "practice musicality," and my answer would be: I don't practice it in the traditional sense. I immerse myself. I loop "Howeh El Hob" over and over, not to memorize moves, but to memorize the feeling. I notice the accents I missed the first time, the way my chest wants to rise and fall, the flicker of the wrist that naturally follows a vocal run. Musicality is listening, yes, but it's also surrendering. It's letting the song teach me, letting my body speak its language.

Sometimes I close my eyes mid-song and realize that my movements are not even mine anymore. They belong to the rhythm, the melody, the whisper of a note between beats. That's the magic: the music becomes a partner, not a backdrop. My body answers, and the answer surprises me in ways I didn't expect. There's nothing rehearsed here, nothing forced, just a constant dialogue between sound and flesh.

I want dancers who read this to feel that too: that musicality isn't only about hitting the accent or finishing a combination. It's about listening deeply, moving honestly, and letting the song find you. It's messy sometimes. It's personal. It's fleeting. But it's real.

When "Howeh El Hob" ends, I'm left in silence, my chest still vibrating with the last note. And I find myself wanting to play it again, not to perfect a movement, but to dive back in, to discover the next flicker, the next pause, the next whisper the song has for me.

Musicality is a dialogue, not a performance. And for me, this song - this fleeting, pulsing, teasing track by Adham Nabulsi - is the kind of conversation I never want to end.


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