In the center of her mirror-walled dance studio, Janelle Jalila Issis is busy setting up her class. As her students file in, wearing shimmering hip skirts over leggings, she greets them warmly — often by name — encouraging them to grab a spot and begin warming up. As we get started, I feel gangly, overly aware of my long, stiff limbs. But it doesn’t last long; after demonstrating a few classic movements, Issis leads us in a taqsim, a mostly improvised dance set to a single instrument, and after a few rounds of improvising, I feel reasonably prepared to move on to the choreographed piece.
Issis moves fluidly and intuitively, allowing the music to guide her legs; her arms; her round, six-months-pregnant belly. Our teacher is somehow both unhurried and swift, melting her hips into a circle before rapidly twisting them from side to side. She shows us how to undulate our limbs as if a gust of wind is blowing into our underarms, and I’m astounded by my ability to create some semblance of the effect. It’s not just that she’s comfortable in these movements — she’s comfortable in her skin, and that feeling of safety emanates from her, touching us all.
As we conclude the class with a performance of the choreography, which turns into an improvised dance circle, a collective feeling of happiness becomes so overwhelming it nearly brings me to tears. This joyful confidence is part of what drew in photographer Sabrina Santiago, who attended several classes just like this one and documented them with her camera. “You can see how free people feel, and it’s so wonderful,” says Santiago. “The energy in the room is just amazing.”
As the soft twang she speaks with suggests, Issis grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where she was heavily involved in her local Arab Catholic church community. At food festivals and other events, there were always traditional dances, and by age 4, she had started taking classes in traditional, folkloric dance styles like dabke as well as for ballet, tap, and jazz. She quickly became the protégé of a teacher at her church and began to train in belly dancing. But throughout her childhood, she kept her belly dancing to herself. “I always belly danced, but I hid it,” she says. “Because I was made fun of, called all the things, as western media oversexualizes belly dance.” It wasn’t until she started college at the University of Alabama that she began to publicly lean into her first love. In 2012, at 23, she auditioned and was chosen for So You Think You Can Dance, becoming the first contestant to compete as a belly dancer.
For years afterward, she continued pursuing all forms of dance, auditioning for Hamilton, doing consistent commercial work, and teaching classes at Alvin Ailey and Broadway Dance Center. Around 2018, she decided to devote herself entirely to belly dance, and when COVID hit she started her own business by teaching online. It’s safe to say it has been a success; her beginner classes are always packed, in person and on Zoom, and last year she was featured on The Wendy Williams Show.
The goal, as Issis puts it, is for everyone, whether they’re a beginner or have been coming for years, to end the class feeling more confident than when they walked in: “Some students take class because they have sexual trauma and they want to feel confident. Some students take class because they were told they could never be sexy, that they’re making themselves a target, that they can’t express themselves that way because it’s not safe. They come to class so they can feel that and find those things.”
“During class, she would yell things like, ‘You’re beautiful!’ ‘More heart!’ I would look over at her, and she’d be holding her stomach in the most beautiful way, grazing her belly,” says Santiago, sharing that Issis’s upcoming student showcase will be called “Watermelon” to honor both the symbol for Palestinian liberation and Issis’s growing belly.
In class, Issis’s students range vastly in age, and belly dancing suits all of them — including Fukuko, a 75-year-old dancer and retiree who takes a different style of dance class every day. When she started coming to belly-dancing classes, she took to them right away. “I’ve had nine surgeries: two hip replacements, one knee replacement — all the metal,” says Fukuko. “So many hardships on my body. But belly dancing is the least taxing. I only see the benefits.”
Issis is developing a prenatal belly-dancing program inspired by the ancient roots of the art form. Some researchers have found that belly dancing is one of the oldest forms of dance — with roots as a fertility ritual and dance that pregnant women performed to aid childbirth. “There are movements doulas teach all the time that are belly dancing: It’s figure eights; it’s hip circles; it’s shimmies. That is a lot of where this stuff comes from,” Issis says.
Santiago visited Issis at home, where she has started to teach prenatal classes online. “She makes everything look so effortless,” the photographer says.
Whether it’s sparkly performance outfits like the one shown here or a simple hip skirt paired with workout clothes, the clothing worn by Issis and her dancers has a special significance. “In her environment, she always has something positive to say about my outfits,” says Jude. “I can be my full self, and she’s only going to bring light out of it rather than water it down … That touched me personally because growing up, it was always like, ‘Cover up.’ She brings the sunlight out of you.”
Fukuko has danced her whole life and says Issis’s belly-dancing classes are uniquely supportive. She feels not just accepted but embraced by other students, and she has experienced none of the body-shaming that she says has been typical of other styles of dance. “When you get old, you think, Oh God, this is terrible. I look so horrendous,” she says. “But everybody shows their belly. This is liberating. As a woman 50, 60, 70, even 80 years old, I want to feel sexy. You cannot just become an ‘it.’ Belly dancing reminds us of the core of our existence.”
Jude and Gabriela first met in school, where both were studying acting. Taking Issis’s class together cemented their friendship, and Gabriela feels deeply connected not just to Jude but to all of her fellow dancers. “I really recommend having a shared hobby with your friend. It was a mutual thing that we would talk about or practice together,” Gabriela says. “Especially once we had finished school and were still very close. It gave us a third place to see each other. Our friendship is intertwined with belly dance.”
Issis credits the support she received from her parents growing up as her guiding energy today. “My parents were very confident in me and so supportive; they didn’t try to cover me up or push me down. I think I give that same love to my students in a way,” she says. “I try to set my students up for success. The people that gravitate toward my classes and toward me are all really beautiful women, and they tend to latch on to each other and create this family.”
“I love photographing dancers. They’re aware of their bodies and how they move, so it feels like such a breeze to photograph because I also feel like photography is a dance,” says Santiago. “You could feel that the community there was so accepting and warm … Now I feel like I need to continue on with it. It’s developed into such a beautiful thing.”
For Jude, who grew up with few female relatives nearby, her classmates are like surrogate sisters and cousins. “I’m able to speak Arabic with people other than my parents. I can connect deeply to my roots and my culture. I hang out with a lot of people outside of class,” she says. “We’re going on a trip in March to Florida for belly dancing. We have this thing in common, and we want to grow together. Dance can be a competitive atmosphere, but I don’t feel like that in her classes. There’s room for everybody to be a dancer, and everybody has something unique.”
In Issis’s classes, she isn’t just teaching; she’s creating community. Some students have been taking her classes for years, and many have formed close independent friendships. “I can’t ever leave her classes because of the energy,” says Jude. “She makes it a positive, sacred space. I immediately feel like, Wow, I have a million friends in this class. Janelle sets it up that way.” For Jude, whose home country, Syria, was recently bombed by Israel, class is a place where she can talk about what’s happening without the fear that she’ll be rebuked or feel invalidated.
The goal, as Issis puts it, is for everyone, whether they’re a beginner or have been coming for years, to end the class feeling more confident than when they walked in: “Some students take class because they have sexual trauma and they want to feel confident. Some students take class because they were told they could never be sexy, that they’re making themselves a target, that they can’t express themselves that way because it’s not safe. They come to class so they can feel that and find those things.”
“During class, she would yell things like, ‘You’re beautiful!’ ‘More heart!’ I would look over at her, and she’d be holding her stomach in the most beautiful way, grazing her belly,” says Santiago, sharing that Issis’s upcoming student showcase will be called “Watermelon” to honor both the symbol for Palestinian liberation and Issis’s growing belly.
In class, Issis’s students range vastly in age, and belly dancing suits all of them — including Fukuko, a 75-year-old dancer and retiree who takes a different style of dance class every day. When she started coming to belly-dancing classes, she took to them right away. “I’ve had nine surgeries: two hip replacements, one knee replacement — all the metal,” says Fukuko. “So many hardships on my body. But belly dancing is the least taxing. I only see the benefits.”
Issis is developing a prenatal belly-dancing program inspired by the ancient roots of the art form. Some researchers have found that belly dancing is one of the oldest forms of dance — with roots as a fertility ritual and dance that pregnant women performed to aid childbirth. “There are movements doulas teach all the time that are belly dancing: It’s figure eights; it’s hip circles; it’s shimmies. That is a lot of where this stuff comes from,” Issis says.
Santiago visited Issis at home, where she has started to teach prenatal classes online. “She makes everything look so effortless,” the photographer says.
Whether it’s sparkly performance outfits like the one shown here or a simple hip skirt paired with workout clothes, the clothing worn by Issis and her dancers has a special significance. “In her environment, she always has something positive to say about my outfits,” says Jude. “I can be my full self, and she’s only going to bring light out of it rather than water it down … That touched me personally because growing up, it was always like, ‘Cover up.’ She brings the sunlight out of you.”
Fukuko has danced her whole life and says Issis’s belly-dancing classes are uniquely supportive. She feels not just accepted but embraced by other students, and she has experienced none of the body-shaming that she says has been typical of other styles of dance. “When you get old, you think, Oh God, this is terrible. I look so horrendous,” she says. “But everybody shows their belly. This is liberating. As a woman 50, 60, 70, even 80 years old, I want to feel sexy. You cannot just become an ‘it.’ Belly dancing reminds us of the core of our existence.”
Jude and Gabriela first met in school, where both were studying acting. Taking Issis’s class together cemented their friendship, and Gabriela feels deeply connected not just to Jude but to all of her fellow dancers. “I really recommend having a shared hobby with your friend. It was a mutual thing that we would talk about or practice together,” Gabriela says. “Especially once we had finished school and were still very close. It gave us a third place to see each other. Our friendship is intertwined with belly dance.”
Issis credits the support she received from her parents growing up as her guiding energy today. “My parents were very confident in me and so supportive; they didn’t try to cover me up or push me down. I think I give that same love to my students in a way,” she says. “I try to set my students up for success. The people that gravitate toward my classes and toward me are all really beautiful women, and they tend to latch on to each other and create this family.”
“I love photographing dancers. They’re aware of their bodies and how they move, so it feels like such a breeze to photograph because I also feel like photography is a dance,” says Santiago. “You could feel that the community there was so accepting and warm … Now I feel like I need to continue on with it. It’s developed into such a beautiful thing.”
For Jude, who grew up with few female relatives nearby, her classmates are like surrogate sisters and cousins. “I’m able to speak Arabic with people other than my parents. I can connect deeply to my roots and my culture. I hang out with a lot of people outside of class,” she says. “We’re going on a trip in March to Florida for belly dancing. We have this thing in common, and we want to grow together. Dance can be a competitive atmosphere, but I don’t feel like that in her classes. There’s room for everybody to be a dancer, and everybody has something unique.”
In Issis’s classes, she isn’t just teaching; she’s creating community. Some students have been taking her classes for years, and many have formed close independent friendships. “I can’t ever leave her classes because of the energy,” says Jude. “She makes it a positive, sacred space. I immediately feel like, Wow, I have a million friends in this class. Janelle sets it up that way.” For Jude, whose home country, Syria, was recently bombed by Israel, class is a place where she can talk about what’s happening without the fear that she’ll be rebuked or feel invalidated.
Through it all, Issis’s Palestinian identity has been inextricably tied to her artistry. She’s a third-generation Palestinian American whose family left Palestine in the 1948 Nakba, and growing up she was encouraged to assimilate as much as possible into American culture. Food, language, and belly dancing were what kept her connected to her Palestinian lineage — and now, as a teacher, she shares pieces of Palestinian culture in every class through music, dance, and her own luminous presence. Like many of us, she has been deeply affected by the horrific violence and mass death that Gazans in Palestine have faced for the past four months. As she grieves the lost lives while preparing to birth a new life, belly dancing has kept her sane. “It’s the one thing I can do to share a positive light about my culture — of Palestinian people, of my heritage — in such a beautiful way,” she says. “Most nights, I’m going to bed pretty upset. But my doctors have said, ‘You need to keep your mind and your body healthy for this baby.’ The baby has been a saving grace in that sense, forcing me to focus my love and energy on my body.”
In every class she teaches, Issis is keeping Palestinian culture alive. For herself and her dance students, her classes are also a source of real safety and comfort. “Dance is extremely healing,” says Issis. “I have a lot of students who are coming to take class because they need to escape the pain. And I also have students who are sharing with me, ‘I want to come, but I just don’t feel right dancing right now.’ Because they’re so hurt. And I respect both. Dance is personally a way to stay connected and to do something healthy for my body — because everything we’re watching is far from it.”
For Santiago, capturing the classes was the start of what she feels will be an ongoing relationship with the art of belly dancing, something she first encountered while watching her mother’s belly-dancing lessons as a child. It’s a full-circle moment she doesn’t take lightly: “It can be very vulnerable to dance in general, let alone to be photographed,” she says. “I was very grateful that they allowed me to be in that space and to document them moving.” The care behind the lens is tangible in the images; the dancers’ faces and bodies are soft, open, comfortable. Santiago’s eye puts a spotlight on the dancers, but more important, she embraces them. “I wanted to highlight Janelle and her Palestinian culture,” Santiago explains. “Dance is a way of preserving cultures that are under the threat of erasure.”