HAVE YOU EVER longed for molokheya or a piece of basboussa and not been able to find the right ingredients to make it? Have you ever wanted to call your best friend and invite her over for a cup of mint tea, but knew you couldn’t because she lives millions of miles away?

It was a Wednesday night and I was strolling around a lively street after work in Nagoya, one of the biggest cities in Japan, when I stumbled into a poster with a miniature image of the Pyramids and the Sphinx on it. Mere words cannot describe the warmth I felt and the shivers that ran up my spine at the sight of the picture despite weather that was so hot it was more like a furnace blast. At the very back of my heart, I was homesick the sweetest form of nostalgia one can feel without even knowing it. Curiosity drew me closer to the poster to see what was on it. Struggling with my Japanese reading skills, all I could understand was that it was an advertisement for a belly dancing class.

Yes, an Egyptian belly dancing class in Japan.

Involuntarily (or voluntarily), I found my legs carrying me in the direction of the cultural center advertised on the poster where the classes were being held. Once there, I didn’t reveal my nationality and politely asked if I could quietly observe the class.

It was a simple room, with mirrors covering the walls, typical for aerobics or dancing classes. Soon enough, the room was filled with enthusiastic young Japanese women, eager to learn the exotic, “sexy” (as one of them later described it) dance of Egypt. Belly dancing is becoming more and more popular in Japan. I was surprised and fascinated that these Japanese ladies chose to learn belly dancing over bon odori (traditional Japanese dance), flower arrangement or tea ceremony.

I couldn’t hold back my smile when I saw the girls swinging their hips; it was a contented, proud smile. Their clothing was the casual attire of a regular rehearsal class: They simply tied a beaded scarf around their hips. To my ears, their simple scarf in itself was like a musical instrument. The coins dangling from them had a special sound that I had never noticed before while at home. The music was exclusively Egyptian, featuring the great Omm Kalthoum and the tunes of Baligh Hamdi.

I couldn’t help but mumble the words of Abdel Halim’s and Warda’s songs.

Homesickness is the sweetest form of nostalgia one can feel. Curiosity drew me closer to the poster to see what was on it. Struggling with my Japanese reading skills, all I could understand was that it was an advertisement for a belly dancing class.

The dancers’ movements were quite graceful; the trainer kept on making it a point to focus on the emotional intensity of each movement, emphasizing that the facial expressions and arm movements were equally important. Properly performed, the hand turns down the center of the body in front of the face, neck and heart where it unfolds out again. The trainer kept on repeating, “Visualize, imagine you are holding a heavy ball gracefully then dropping it.” The kick movements were also as graceful as the arms. The image of our Taheya Karyoka, Samia Gamal and Soad Hosny vividly came to my mind.

This inexplicable, wonderful homing instinct never occurred to me before that day. A Japanese trainer is teaching Japanese young ladies how to belly dance Egyptian-style; she is also learning Arabic, as are some of her students. Before, when I was abroad what I craved was always in the form of a blurry, hazy image rather than something concrete. If you asked me what I miss the most about Egypt, I wouldn’t know what to say; it could be the smell, the sound, or the taste of its delicious food.

On that day I realized what I miss the most is the sense of belonging. I’m so happy when Japanese people call me “Nancy of Egypt” or “Cleopatra-san” (Miss Cleopatra).  et