When she began to dance, her personality filled the room like a powerful light. Amira had always thought of beledi as sensual at its heart, and perhaps that was true. But there was far more than sensuality in Sonia Murad’s dance. There was joy, pain, humor, even fear. Her dance was about being a woman and a human being.

Sometimes the undulations of Sonia’s body were so rapid and so perfectly rhythmic as to seem impossible. Sometimes she struck a stillness so profound that it made one think of the stars or of God.

The crowd was hers, clapping and shouting with the music, and when she gestured to one of them, the woman moved toward the stage, as if drawn by an invisible cord, and began a dance of her own. Soon, a dozen, then two dozen women were dancing at Sonia’s behest. It was amazing, thought Amira, how the different personalities were revealed. Then Sonia pointed at her, and suddenly everyone was urging her to dance.

She did. She felt awkward for only a moment, then found herself enjoying a freedom of movement forgotten since the day her father caught her dancing to the radio. But suddenly, a sharp pain in her abdomen doubled her; the sliced muscles there had not mended enough for this exertion. A face appeared from the crowd around her: the little princess who had asked about the car wreck. “It’s all right, Amira. We know.” What did that mean?

The floor shook with the rhythm of the dance. Amira thought of the pagan frenzies of ancient Egypt and Greece. The room was an oven, the air-conditioning overwhelmed. Women were soaked with sweat, makeup streaming down their faces. Someone had opened the sliding glass doors along one wall to let in the cooling night air.

Suddenly, there was a disturbance on the edge of the crowd. Women shouting in outrage, men’s angry voices. Sonia Murad glanced toward the sound, tried to continue her dance, then stopped.

“It’s the Remali police,” a woman near Amira said. What were the religious police doing here?

“The music!” someone said. “They’re angry because they can hear the music outside.”

“Females, cover yourselves,” a man shouted.

There was near panic. Women pushed toward every exit. Amira, still in pain, moved with a mini stampede to the sliding doors. Then she was out under the cold winter stars.

Around her, hundreds of women in the latest Western fashions fanned out into the Remali night. Some were in tears, others laughing; one young woman cursed the Remali police like a camel driver, a punishable offense in al-Remal. Foreigners coming into the Hilton stood and stared at the mass of jeweled refugees.

Amira sat on a low concrete wall, unable to go any farther. A strong hand gripped her arm. Was she under arrest?