Five years ago, I had the chance to perform at a folk music festival in Piesk, Czechia, representing young Chinese dancers alongside other students.

Before the event, we spent hours every day polishing our movements to perfection, listening to the music over and over again to match every beat, and even rehearsing every facial expression in front of the mirror to represent the beauty of Chinese dancing to the fullest.

However, the highlight of that memorable day, as it eventually turned out, was not on the brightly lit stage, but unfolded on the dewy lawn next to it after the performances were over, when we joined the local students for a picnic. After a while, someone turned on music, and suddenly, the afternoon lawn transformed into a dance floor. Without hesitation, the local students began to form a circle, joining hands and stepping in rhythm together. Their folk music was fast-paced, joyous, and almost infectious, with sharp turns of the song of the flute and the resonating rhythm of drums. My friends sat on the picnic mat and stared at them, hesitant, held back by the more-than-apparent wall of our cultural and linguistic differences. I felt it too — a creeping sense of loneliness at the absence of my family and friends, the world I was used to, the unease of being foreign in a place rooted in its own traditions. Everything, from the pastries to the colorful, traditional dresses, was alien to us. But something in me stirred, something that overshadowed the feeling of being out of place. I did not know a single word in Czech, but I could understand the dancers’ unspoken invitation for us to share their joy, to be part of something together.

Before I realized it, I had leaped into the circle, joining its momentum. I found myself immediately being accepted into the colorful spin of traditional clothing — the embroidered aprons, the red and yellow and green flowery skirts — the lacy hems at once blending in with the pink silk that was my dance costume. I was completely unfamiliar with the steps and kept stumbling, accidentally stepping on the local students’ feet, but rather than frowns and complaints, there was genuine, friendly laughter that echoed in the air. I kept on dancing in the circle, feeling the lawn — a soft and thick green carpet — underneath each step. Changing partners after every verse, clapping hands, and joining arms with the students, I saw the smiling faces around me, our worlds so distinct, so far away from each other, yet colliding at that shared moment of joy. I realized then that dancing was not all about being perfect, about performing and representing, but about our human nature to be happy, to celebrate, and to bond. When we were not on a stage anymore, under the scrutiny of both an audience and our own awareness, we were truly able to dance with freedom. To express. Our dance, then, turned into a celebration of life itself, an appreciation of art and beauty in its very purest form, despite the fact that we were unable to exchange a single spoken word.

The separate walls that we were used to living within, that defined our identity — languages, cultures — caved in. In the circle that flowed according to the melody, it almost seemed as if we had created our own little universe with the medium of dance and music, where movement spoke louder and more eloquently than any sentence we could construct. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t dancing for the sake of imitating a given repertoire, pose for pose, in an attempt to represent certain meanings constructed by others. Instead, holding the hands of the other children with whom I’d never imagined I would become friends, who came from the other side of the world, we became creators of meaning. I found myself dancing simply to express joy, to connect, to be part of something larger.

Dance, in its purest form, is never supposed to be all about precision or a showcase of skills and flexibility. It is about the way it brings people together, about the shared emotions that flow through every step, every turn of the dancer to reach their audience. It’s a celebration of life, of the joy that transcends every social barrier we perceive. Art, then, is unique in its great power to communicate across linguistic, cultural, geographical, and political disparities. Just like I did not need to understand Czech and the local students did not need to speak English or Chinese for us to share the joy of the dance, a person can also appreciate the emotional message of a painting or a piece of music without having to learn the nuances behind it.

Since my first-hand experience in Czechia, I began expanding on this realization, harnessing my years of practicing traditional Chinese folk dancing in various regions and choreographing dance repertoires to promote environmental awareness. Using art as the bridge between cultures, I hoped to not only bring together different communities with emotional resonance but also engage them in global causes. In one of the pieces I created, for instance, I incorporated various physical motifs often used by the Dai ethnic minority, such as the wind, rain, and ocean tides, in an attempt to remind my audiences of the inherent and constant connection between humans and nature. By blending the heritage of Chinese folk dance with modern issues, I have been able to create performances that resonate across cultural boundaries, proving that art can evoke empathy, and in turn raise awareness that, hopefully, will one day turn into collective action.

In short, art and music are powerful forces that transcend the limitations of language and culture. By evoking shared human experiences and emotions, they can unite people from drastically different backgrounds. In the increasingly globalized world we find ourselves in today, they can, perhaps, serve as a constant reminder of our shared humanity, allowing us to ignore our superficial differences and truly connect.