Meet Nurjahan: The TikToker and gun violence survivor battling stereotypes and empowering women through belly dance
By Hanin Najjar
Nurjahan Boulden often upsets people on TikTok, but not because she wants to. As a mixed-race Muslim woman who is a dancer, a teacher, a victim of gun violence and a wife and mother of three, her existence itself can be controversial.
Over the last year, Nurjahan has built a community of over 300,000 women from all over the world by sharing her story and her dance. Growing up with Swahili and Aabic music from East Africa and West Asia, Nurjahan learned to dance before she could walk. Her mother is part Congolese, from the Democratic Republic of Congo, and part Baloch, an ethnic group from the area of present day Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan. Nurjahan’s mother was born in Tanzania, and later immigrated to the United States.
Nurjahan grew up mixed race in the US, where she carried the tradition of belly dance that was passed through generations of women. She recalled having women-only dance parties with women from Tanzania, Kenya, Egypt, Morocco, Iraq and so on.
“We found each other, even though we all have different styles and different tastes and music,” Nurjahan said.
To her, dance brought a sense of community and sisterhood.
“Barefoot and in her traditional East African dresses, Nurjahan danced in parks, streets, stores and airports, taking her followers on her journey with her.”
In college, Nurjahan taught belly dance and entertained the idea of becoming a dancer. She dreamed of sharing belly dance with the world, but not everyone supported her.
“I was warned many times when I was younger, that if you dance in public spaces, bad things happened.”
She was 21 when her worst nightmare came true. On vacation in Canada, she went out dancing with her cousins at a nightclub when a man walked in with an assault rifle and started shooting. She felt the lower half of her body go numb as she fell to the rooftop floor, bleeding for 25 minutes before paramedics got to her.
“I’m never going to dance again,” her cousin heard her say.
Nurjahan with her right leg in a cast while recovering from a gunshot wound
She knew she had been shot, but didn’t know where. After arriving at the hospital, she found out that the bullet shattered the tibia in her right leg and just barely missed a major artery. The doctor told her if it had hit the artery, she would have bled to death by the time the paramedics got there.
“Afterwards, one of my Aunties said, ‘Well, what did she expect, she went out dancing,’” said Nurjahan. “To me, that was just another reminder that there are consequences to breaking the rules, and that I need to stay in line if I want to be safe.”
It would be more than 10 years before she danced again.
For years Nurjahan suffered mentally and physically. More than a decade later, even though doctors told her her leg had healed, she still could not walk for long distances. She could not run or dance or play soccer like she used to.
“I would try to go running and it would hurt so badly, like I was running on a broken leg,” she said. “And I would give up and I would go home and then my leg would hurt for the next couple of weeks.”
The pain in her leg forced her to use a cane to walk.
One day, she went outside with her running shoes on and headphones in her ears, determined to start running again.
“The second my foot hit the pavement it was excruciating pain, and I could already feel myself getting frustrated and defeated,” she said. “And then I was like, it’s a beautiful day outside, and I have a really good song playing. I’m gonna figure this out. Maybe I just need to run funny.”
She tried to run just on her left side, and when that didn’t work, she flailed her arms while walking around the block, trying to get some kind of rigorous exercise.
“Because if all I do is go on a walk around the block, my legs are going to hurt at the end of it, and it’s not going to feel like I did anything,” she said. “It doesn't get anything out of your system.”
Dancing was what helped her get stress out of her system. She had not danced in so long because, after the shooting, one of her biggest fears was knowing she would never be able to dance the same.
“I used to love dancing, and my body wasn’t the same, I could barely walk. I was not going to be a good dancer. So I thought, what if I let myself be a really bad dancer? So I started dancing like nobody was looking.”
She went onto a busy street, dancing mostly on her left side and trying to be loving with her hurting leg.
“In my head, I decided I'm gonna imagine that every person driving by knows my story. They know that I’ve been shot, they know that I’ve struggled, they know that I’m trying my best to get back on my feet, and they’re cheering for me.”
After a quarter mile, sweating and out of breath, she felt like she finally released something. A few days later she went out and did it again. She kept doing it over and over again until, six months later, she ran for the first time.
“That was the most important moment for me to get back in my body and to realize that it was me that was holding me back more than it was my leg,” she said.
Running was the breakthrough that she needed and the first step to getting back to dancing again after so long.
“It actually took me longer to belly dance again. And that’s because belly dancing is really vulnerable,” said Nurjahan. “I knew I would have to take the time to really love on my whole body.”
Belly dancing can be a healing practice that is both physical and emotional. Nurjahan recalled a trip to Kenya to visit her Auntie who was sick with terminal ovarian cancer. The family knew it was close to the end, so she, her mom and three of her aunts all went to visit.
As they were all gathered, someone turned on some music and they all started dancing and laughing together.
“They started singing Swahili songs, and, while we were dancing, one of my Aunties just broke down crying because it was her big sister that was dying. And her big sister made fun of her,” she said. “That’s when I realized that belly dance in my mom’s culture, and the way that we practice it, it’s not just about celebration, it’s really about feeling. It’s about moving through the best parts of life, and moving with each other through the hardest parts of life.”
After being shot, Nurjahan had a hard time feeling connected to her body.
“Every time I would even talk about being shot, my whole body would start shaking. I felt like I couldn’t be in my body because I felt the trauma,” she said. “There were times when I literally wanted to saw off my leg. I thought, Oh, if I just cut off my leg, then I could run and dance because I could just get a prosthetic.”
Belly dance became a healing practice for her in more ways than one. In one of her videos, Nurjahan credited her healing to belly dance saying she would still be walking with a cane if she hadn’t started dancing again. Studies have shown that dance can relieve stress but also release the tension and trauma that gets stuck in the body.
“Belly dance forces you to get into your body, it forces you to connect with the parts of your body that you love and it forces you to connect with the parts of your body that you can’t stand,” she said. “You can’t dance and be fully self-expressed and be in touch with your sensual side and also hide at the same time.”
Nurjahan telling her story and advocating against gun violence
Along with dance, it was two women that helped Nurjahan heal. The first woman was Rhonda Foster, a fellow gun violence survivor and advocate.
“She was the first person who told me I was the survivor and invited me to share my story,” she said. “I had never shared it before because I had so much shame about it. That was a huge emotional opening for me.”
The second woman was a Khateeba at the Women’s Mosque of America.
“She invited me to start facing my fears. And following my passion,” she said. “Dance has always been my biggest passion. I wanted to find a way to share it with the world that kept it true to its nature, which was supposed to be about women supporting and empowering each other from my cultural perspective.”
In its original form, belly dance is a practice of community, joy and healing that was passed down through generations of women in East Africa and West Asia. European colonization exoticized and sexualized it, removing its true purpose and beauty.
“It took away our connection to each other and it stripped us of the community that we all really need,” said Nurjahan. “The dance I grew up with is anchored in connecting with your body. It is a practice of healing. It’s women coming together, celebrating each other and our movements.”
Living up to her name, which means light of the world, Nurjahan wanted to take back the tradition of belly dance and the power it holds.
“Dance has always been my biggest passion. I wanted to find a way to share it with the world that kept it true to its nature, which was supposed to be about women supporting and empowering each other”
Whether it was weddings, birthday parties or Eid celebrations, women always got together and started dancing. But when the COVID-19 pandemic confined everyone to their homes, no women got together to dance. That community and joy seemed so far away.
To fill the void, Nurjahan’s brother suggested she teach tutorials on Youtube. Terrified, she slowly started teaching on YouTube. Then a woman she knew sent her a message.
“She was like, ‘Shame on you. You’re doing this in front of all the men to see.’ Biggest. Trigger. Ever.”
When she was shot, she believed that it was a punishment for dancing in public. Some would say it was against culture and against religion.
Praying for an answer, Nurjahan had the opportunity of the holy month of Ramadan to talk to God.
“Look, if you don’t want me to do this, tell me that you don’t want me to do this,” she said. “It feels so right. I feel like I’m reaching other women.”
Nurjahan dancing barefoot and in her traditional dress with a scarf tied around her hips
Feeling in touch with God and her roots, Nurjahan started posting her videos on TikTok and facing her fears by dancing in public spaces. Barefoot and in her traditional East African dresses, she danced in parks, streets, stores and airports, taking her followers on her journey with her.
“It still terrifies me. But it gives me such a rush. It makes me feel like I’m rebelling,” she said. “There are a lot of people who would not want to see a woman, especially a woman of color, dancing, or even specifically belly dancing.”
Her goal is to normalize the bodies of women of color in public spaces.
“How many brown women, how many Muslim women do you see, taking up space in public, whether it’s speaking, or dancing? I just want it to be so many of us that it doesn’t feel weird anymore, that they can’t shame us out of it anymore.”
Sharing her dances, stories and culture, Nurjahan has reached and empowered hundreds of thousands of women from different backgrounds. She hopes to share the tradition of community and healing in its original form, one she was taught by generations of women in her family.
“My mom is 78 right now and she still comes to my belly dance parties. When I see her shimmying and dancing her heart out, she comes alive.” Nurjahan said. “It teaches me that it does not matter my age, it does not matter my ability level, it does not matter how many wrinkles I have on my skin or folds I have in my belly. I can find joy in my body and I deserve that joy.”
From strengthening your muscles and connecting with your body to expressing joy and feeling community, dance is an underrated power waiting to be unlocked in everyone. So kick off your shoes, turn on some beats and move like nobody is looking. You deserve to express joy and to feel the power in your body.
Nurjahan hosts online and in-person classes that can be found on her website nurjahanboulden.com. Check out her playlist below.
Header photo by @m.k.photography180
