Ahmad Kontar

“From a very early age, I have always felt connected to music. I remember once, it was Christmas, and my twin sister Sara and I were dancing like crazy to the sounds of Shakira, having drunk for the first time… I must have been 9 or 10 years old — we were very young!

At that time, I was playing basketball on a national level all around Syria, from 7 to 15 years old. Suddenly, I was forced to quit when the war started, and channelling all my energy became very difficult. That is actually why I started breakdancing. My dad introduced me to his friend who was teaching hip-hop in his studio, and when I saw him dancing, I realised that was exactly what I wanted to do.

Starting dance brought me back to my most enjoyable childhood memories. Dance makes me feel free and brings me specific joys that I cannot find elsewhere. It embodies my uniqueness and allows me to create a space in which I can express myself. Above all, it enables me to be fully present. I consider dance my favourite way of communicating, especially since I didn’t speak a word of French when I arrived in France. Dancing helped me feel as if I belonged to French society, even when I couldn’t communicate verbally. I was lucky enough to have a family that has always been supportive and understood the importance of fostering talents before anything else. Back in my hometown, dancing was never really considered “manly” enough. I somehow managed to change people’s opinions when I taught dance there from the age of 17 to 19.

However, I don’t think I have a special talent. I’ve never believed in talent — I only believe in working hard for what you love. We are all talented.

Why impose limits and obstacles on yourself, when society already does enough to keep you from reaching your full potential?

When I first arrived in France at the age of 19, I struggled with my identity. Should I tell people I was from Syria?

Imagine arriving as a refugee and instantly being perceived as a problem for society. You want to feel as small as possible, not disturb, not take up space. I even questioned whether I should change my name. Some of my friends did — trading their names for something more “French,” like François or Jean-Pierre.

But for me, that would have been too easy.

I believe deeply that telling your story is essential. It allows you to connect beyond differences — and can even inspire others to do the same. I wanted to be accepted as Ahmad, from Syria. My name has been passed down for over 100 years, from generation to generation. If someone chooses to judge me based on that, I simply call it ignorance.

Just as I shifted perceptions around dance back in Syria by teaching it, I continued that same path of openness and courage in France — by keeping my name.

After two years here, I reached a point of truly accepting myself, and I’ve been so happy ever since. Many doors have opened for me — doors I never could have imagined in Syria or anywhere else.

Of course, there are still aspects of Western culture I don’t fully understand — especially when it comes to relationships. In my culture, we’re raised to value meeting someone, discovering shared ground, and gradually moving toward intimacy. Here, sex often comes before commitment.

In the Arab world, sexuality remains quite taboo. In France, it can be seen as something casual — something to consume. But for me, giving my body to someone else means something. Sex should always be precious.

I feel like I carry an important responsibility towards society — not only as a dancer, but also as a human being, especially in a time when the world feels increasingly divided. It strikes me how paradoxical it is that it’s easier to send a message on Instagram than to simply speak to a stranger face to face.

For me, my role as a dancer often shows up in small things — like bringing a smile to a child’s face when I dance in the street. Those moments remind me of my own existence. That’s how we stay alive, don’t you think? For those glimpses of humanity, I guess. Sometimes we’re so close, yet still so far. That’s why I believe dance matters — it brings us together. And since we can only give what we have, I chose to give dance.

I also want to acknowledge that there are hundreds of “Ahmad”s in Syria. The only difference is that their stories aren’t being told. I recently spoke with a friend who’s still there, and he said to me: “You know, Ahmad, they always say you’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel, but it’s been eleven years and we still can’t see it.” I want my friends, and everyone still in Syria, to know that we haven’t forgotten them. We are looking for ways to help — and for me, offering hope is what matters most right now. They need people to reach out to them.

If given the opportunity, I would like to use my influence to share a message of hope. And I believe I’m already doing that through dance. I’ve never hidden where I come from, and I’ve always believed in dance and hip-hop as powerful tools — rooted in peace, love, unity, and joy.

Words exchanged during a zoom call in November 2020, between Paris & Dubai.

Published in https://thewhatdancecandoproject.com/portfolio/ahmad-2/

Billie Muraben