A Level Playing Field? Think Again.

The leaves are turning yellow, the night air is crisp, and even the neighborhood pub server asks, ‘Would you like some pumpkin spice with that?’ every time you order a pint. It is autumn - the perfect time for an editorial piece that isn’t cluttered with a dozen external links demanding you watch videos, read academic articles, or, heaven forbid, open an actual book. Because clearly, we all come here for homework. 

Buckle your seat belt, Dorothy, because we are going places!

What you’re about to read falls squarely into the lofty realm of ‘my highly informed and absolutely unbiased opinion - believe me.’ In less diplomatic terms, it’s yet another Auntie Helen rant on those recurring topics that, much like heartburn after cheap takeout, insist on bubbling back to the surface regardless of your wish to never have to address them again. 

Whether you’re social media savvy or a digital hermit like me, chances are you’ve stumbled across a reel or two bravely attempting to unpack the complex status of professional belly dancers in Egypt - male or female, Egyptian or not - all within a neat thirty-second clip. Nuance is often the first casualty, lost amidst the reductive impact of captions and background music.

My mission today is not to forcibly cram the One True Perspective into your brain, but to generously sprinkle nuance and context wherever I can. That said, you know me well enough by now to bet your ruby slippers that I won’t be keeping my opinion politely to myself.

First, let’s narrow the scope of today’s inquiry by laying out a few categories right from the start. We will not be discussing professional male dancers in Egypt - Egyptian or not - so that leaves us with female belly dancers only. From there, we can divide these women into ‘local’ and ‘foreign,’ and further separate them into ‘performing’ and ‘teaching’ groups. Yes, those categories can technically overlap, but since all the examples I’ll use to illustrate my points are hypothetical (unless otherwise noted), let’s just pretend that inconvenient overlap doesn’t exist. The ‘teaching’ group can then be subdivided into ‘theatrical’ and ‘traditional’ categories.

Second, it is impossible to have a meaningful discussion about professional female entertainers without considering the broader societal context of what it means to be a woman in Egypt. It’s easy to snarl at Islam’s views on female sexuality - and, by extension, the female body - but one must remember that the MENAHT regions are not monolithic in terms of religion. Approximately 10 percent of Egyptians are Christian - that’s nearly ten million people! Whether individual Christians perceive female bodies the same way as Muslims is beside the point; what matters is that there seems to be a general societal consensus.

Let’s unpack this view and set the stage for further analysis.

Within Egyptian society, female sexuality is regarded as inherently powerful - a force so potent it must, for everyone’s supposed benefit, be contained and controlled. The tool for this containment? Normative gender roles. Granted, perceptions of those roles have shifted over the centuries, but since we’re mostly concerned with the present state of affairs, it’s fair to say that modern Egyptians maintain a distinctly binary perspective on gender norms. (Thank you, 1952  revolution and your handy, government-imposed self-image!)

So, in a nutshell, this supposedly unstoppable force of the female body is kept under control through veiling and gender segregation - not just for the benefit of men, of course, but for women’s own safety. Or so we’re told. 

Moving right along! This subject is far bigger and more complicated than I’m willing to tackle here. If you’re interested in digging deeper, feel free to reach out and I’ll gladly share the sources that made me (only somewhat) informed on the matter.

Wherever norms exist, behaviors that defy them inevitably follow. It is this transgressive quality of female belly dancers that concerns us today. A belly dancer exposes her body - even in the most modest of costumes - and uses it as a means of earning a living. No matter how sexually restrained, sanitized, or elegant the performance may be, the dancer is treated as a socially marginal figure. Let me repeat that: a belly dancer - any belly dancer - in Egypt is marginalized by the very nature of her profession.

I feel compelled - by the sheer nerdiness of my personality - to throw in yet another ‘however.’ However! There are contexts in which this unleashing (or unchaining, if you will) of female sexuality is not merely tolerated but practically required. I’m talking about weddings and, until recently, the moulids (religious festivals). 

Fun fact! In a context of a wedding, slipping tip money into the dancer’s bra is apparently perfectly acceptable. In most other settings? Nah, not so much. Keep that in mind, but hey, you do you. 

Back to the main topic. Remember those numerous categories of female dancers I so neatly laid out a few paragraphs ago? Well, this is where they finally come into play.

All belly dancers are marginalized in Egypt, but foreign dancers are marginalised just a little less, in true Orwellian fashion - ‘everyone is equal, but some are more equal than others.’

This generally applies to those of Occident origin - whether North American, Western, or Eastern European. It’s the sad reality of self-orientalism: the idea that saying, ‘I had a French belly dancer at my daughter’s wedding!’ could almost pass as a point of bragging. I won’t wade into the depressing quagmire of paperwork, permits, and taxes for foreigners working in Egypt - an administrative can of worms best left unopened. But make no mistake: local Egyptian dancers don’t get a free pass. They, too, are subject to bureaucracy and the government’s cut, with the added burden of navigating daily life under the weight of stigma. The very transgressive-ness of their profession can cost them family support, strain relationships with landlords and neighbors, and, if they have children, invite bullying and crude treatment directed at their kids. When an Egyptian belly dancer finishes a performance, changes out of her costume, and heads home, she doesn’t stop being a belly dancer. She remains what society has branded her: a marginalized - yet essential - professional entertainer.

There is one thing foreign dancers have that local entertainers do not. 

Skill? Training? Musicality? Grace and glamour? A resounding no to all of the above. What they do have is the privilege of leaving - of packing up their shit and heading back home whenever Egypt becomes too much. The understated luxury of an exit strategy. 

I can already hear you yelling, “But Auntie, the dance divas of the Golden Era of Egyptian cinema were adored across the Arab world! Clearly, modern dancers must have done something wrong to deserve their low reputation.” 

First, stop fetishizing belly dancers of any era. Seriously. 

Second, do yourself a favour and actually read the life stories of the stars of belly dance: Badiah Masabni, Tahiya Carioca, Zuba Al Klobatiya, Nazla Adli, Fifi Abdou, and so on. Spoiler alert: many of them became dancers not out of glamorous ambition, but because it was the only way to escape abusive relationships, dysfunctional families, or sheer destitution. Look at how they navigated their personal lives even after being crowned belly dance and movie superstars. Take Tahiya Carioca, for instance - rumour has it she went through well over a dozen marriages. If that doesn’t strike you as heartbreaking, then I don’t think you fully grasp the brutal realities of the world she had to survive in.

Fame does not magically erase marginalization. 

One way for belly dance professionals to soften their ill repute is to step away from stage performances and focus on teaching the art. Sidenote: those who teach without performing are by no means shy about shaming colleagues who appear in venues like nightclubs and cabarets. 

Dance teachers may cater to local or foreign students, or both. I’ll leave the topic of locals teaching locals for now, as it leads into dissection of social classes and the extent of classism and economic disparity in modern Egypt. Let’s instead focus on those who teach foreigners - they can be Egyptian or of any other origin. 

And here’s where it gets absurd. 

Surely you’re familiar with belly dance festivals? There seems to be an endless stream of them happening all over the world. And, shocker, they all revolve around MENAHT dances. Well, it’s in the name, really - but I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the irony. 

Imagine going to Egypt to study an art form that is deeply intertwined with Egyptian culture and national identity, only to discover that your instructor is Eastern European. Not only that - none of the instructors at this hypothetical festival are Egyptian! Wouldn’t that strike you as odd? As if not a single local female performer, when approached by the festival organizers, thought, ‘Sure! I’ll teach them what I actually know. It’ll be fun, and I’ll be paid fairly.’

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you end up studying with an Egyptian instructor. Well, it has less to do with luck and more to do with being an informed consumer. You arrive, guns blazing, thinking, ‘This is the real deal! I’m learning from actual performers - I might just become the next Aziza of Cairo, or Farawla, or Zara!’ Sorry to burst your bubble, Dorothy, but no. Those real-life modern queens of belly dance rarely, if ever, get a chance to teach at dance festivals. Most likely, you’ll be learning a theatricalized version of belly dance, pioneered by Mahmoud Reda and honed over decades by the Reda Troupe and other national and regional ensembles. Take away any and all technique you can, but be cautious about the theory or history you’re being taught. After all, theatrical folklore troupes need governmental support and approval to survive, so don’t expect a candid or fully honest representation of popular entertainment. The dance research world hasn’t forgotten how mahraganat-style dancing was actively discouraged (let’s be real - shit on) and written off as ‘vulgar’ just a few years ago by instructors with their roots in theatrical folklore. And don’t even get me started on the butchering that’s been done to Upper Egyptian ghawazi styles… 

In short: if you think you’re about to unlock the secrets of Cairo’s modern dance scene, brace yourself - you might be attending a state-approved show-and-tell.

The marginalized dancer, the one performing at real sha‘bi weddings and other celebratory occasions, who could teach you just as much (if not more) than an Eastern European with 12 years of Russian ballet and countless hours with so-called ‘refined’ Egyptian instructors like Randa Camal and Tito, never gets the chance to share her knowledge of the art.

Why? Because no one ever asks for it. The old law of supply and demand is running the show here. Aspiring dancers flock to the teachers whose styles they already know - and in today’s world that means the ones with Instagram reels, YouTube channels, and a follower count worth flaunting. Do you honestly think a ghaziya from Sunbat is going to tick those boxes? Despite being adored by her local audience for her deep understanding of regional dance traditions, she’s invisible in the global algorithm. And let’s be real - festival organizers aren’t about to roll the dice on someone not only ‘unstructured’ in technique but, perish the thought, from a rural background. 

But you, Dorothy, are an informed consumer: you want to learn Egyptian raqs sharqi from professional Egyptian women who actually perform at local events and venues for both locals and tourists. And you know the only way that wish stands a chance is if you make some noise - tell the festival organizers, and maybe even air your opinion loudly (and repeatedly) on social media.

Don’t be surprised at how quickly some folks will get their knickers in a knot, preaching that this dance is ‘for everyone’ and that all nationalities and ethnicities can showcase their skills and talents as dance festival instructors because the phenomenon known as belly dance is now ‘international’.

It’s genuinely pathetic when non-MENAHT dance teachers start whining about all the time and effort they’ve poured into mastering belly dance, lamenting how they’re being ‘unfairly deplatformed’ in that magical land of equal opportunity we call ‘the festival circuit.’ 

I honestly can’t decide if, in these cases, they’re genuinely naive and oblivious or just plain unethical and arrogant. After all, anyone even remotely curious about the cultural and historical roots of belly dance almost immediately trips over the centuries-long saga of classism and marginalisation of professional entertainers in Egypt. 

I implore you - please, please, please - check your privileges. Think before you storm into another culture, claiming it’s all yours for the taking. Your creative whims do not erase centuries of history, marginalisation, and lived experience. Own it, or step aside.

So, what can we actually do to right this wrong - at least as much as possible? Make it a habit to elevate the voices buried under the glitz and glamour of post-colonial, modern-day orientalists. Honestly, it’s a tiny price to pay for the joy of having belly dance in your life.

Stay an informed consumer. Don’t throw your support behind dance events or instructors that reek of cultural appropriation, sexism, and the holier-than-thou claim of teaching the ‘highest art’ of belly dance. Spoiler: there’s no such thing - #danceisdance. When you find a new instructor whose style speaks to your dance journey, ask about their roots. Pay attention to the name-dropping. Go to their student recitals, haflas, shows, or gigs if you can. And don’t just watch the dancer - watch the audience. Chances are, when people from the cultures this dance actually belongs to are present, you’ll see an emotional connection you’ll never get from a purely ‘foreign’ crowd when the dancer is doing their job right.

In conclusion, I encourage you, dear Dorothy, to look beyond the shimmy and hip-drop techniques and get a taste of the complexity and nuance that define the life of a professional belly dancer. But at the end of the day… you do you!

Have a rebuttal? Or just want to continue the conversation? Get in touch! askauntiehelen@gmail.com

A Lesson in Humility

Dear Dorothy, the time has come for you and me to have the talk. You know, that serious talk every grown-up has sooner or later… Don’t worry - it’s not about the birds and the bees. This one’s about something far more shocking: the fallibility of human nature.

Brace yourself, because I’ve stumbled upon a revelation so earth-shattering it nearly made me weep: I don’t know everything. Yes, you read that right - your wise and worldly friend is officially confessing ignorance, and loving it! Why? Because it means there are still mysteries to unravel, stacks of books to devour, articles begging for rereads, and lectures just waiting for me on Zoom. What a delightful predicament! 

Alright, I’m done with my happy dance, so you can come back now and finish reading this quick rant on how not to take anything you hear from more experienced dancers as gospel truth.

Today we’re diving into one of those topics everyone swears they know inside and out - until you ask for sources. Then, suddenly, all roads lead back to the same tired refrain: 'Well, my teacher said it, so it must be true.' I am guilty of that and I am sorry for dissimitating information not supported by the historical evidence.

Sa’id and its stick dances. 

It’s easy to nod and say, ‘Yes, yes, I know what Sa‘idi is! Doum-tek-doum-doum-tek,’ then throw in a couple of horsey high-knee steps with a heel drop while swinging an imaginary cane. Sadly, this formula is being repeated in many dance classes as though it were the only legitimate version of Sa‘idi stick dance. And why is it considered the ‘only’ version? Because another myth keeps getting repeated: ‘Sa‘idi women never, ever dance in public - it’s not allowed.’ They do! But they prefer not to be filmed, reflecting both local social norms and sensitivities around public performance. Here, for instance, is a bunch of adorable Sa‘idi girls dancing - they’re young enough that recording them is acceptable. Whether or not ladies dance with sticks is another question entirely, and one we’ll save for another day… 

Moving along!

First, let’s unpack what’s been crammed into such a short name. Sa‘id, or Upper Egypt, is a vast stretch of land lying upstream along the Nile, and yes, it really is higher in elevation. Sa’id literally means “upland”. Here’s the twist: if you look at the map, you’ll see Upper Egypt south of Cairo, not north. But remember, the Nile flows from south to north, so in this case, 'upstream' really does mean 'down south'.

And what about the people who call this land home? Do they stand out from the folks of Cairo and Alexandria? How do they fit into the intricate tapestry of Egyptian society?

Well, to Cairo’s upper classes and government bureaucrats, Sa‘idis often appear as a homogeneous crowd of bumpkins - rustic, simple, and unmistakably ‘from the countryside.’

Here’s a video clip from the government’s family planning campaign to curb runaway population growth, titled ‘Two is Enough.’ In it, we see a perfectly stereotypical Sa‘idi man - a father - struggling to have his sons read him a contract. Neither he nor his sons can read. Enter a girl (I'm not sure of the relationship but let’s assume she’s his daughter) to save the day by reading the contract aloud. The message is simple: don’t have so many kids that you can’t even afford to give them the basics of education.

May I remind you that this rather unfair and unflattering portrayal comes straight from the government itself? Yes, the official authorities, crafting a Public Service Announcement that reduces an entire region of millions to a single, bumbling stereotype. Subtlety clearly wasn’t on the agenda. 

In scholarly usage, the term ‘Sa‘idi’ typically designates the Arabic-speaking descendants of the indigenous Egyptians of Upper Egypt, encompassing both Muslim and Christian communities. In the eyes of the government, however, they are often reduced to moustached yokels. 

There is a melting pot of ethnicities and cultures that reside in the area aside from the Egyptian Sa'idi: there are Nubians, Beja, Bedouin and numerous Dom groups. 

So, when we say ‘Sa‘idi dance,’ what exactly are we referring to? Which part of the rich cultural milieu is in question? It’s easy to fall into the trap of generalization. Let’s not do that. Let’s be more specific in our terminology. This might appear very Western of me, but I can’t think of a better way to acknowledge the incredible diversity of artistic and entertainment traditions within a culture different from my own.

I often hear Sa‘idi dance and raqs el assaya thrown around as if they were identical. After all, a stick is a stick! There’s a new, yet ancient, kid on the block: the tahtib. It’s all the rage these days on teaching and festival circuits! More often than not, this is where you’re told that raqs el assaya has its origins in the tahtib dance, later adapted for the big stage. You’ll also likely hear that while the more “masculine” style of dancing is done with a straight stick, the supposedly “proper feminine” way involves a shorter cane with a crook at the end.

Let’s not get into the tired cliché that women dance with the cane in a “girly” way to tease the men, as if to say, “Well, looky here, I’ve got a cane and I can spin it too!” That sounds more like a post-factum rationalisation to explain why dancers with more feminine stage personas perform in a more feminine style.

Have you seen Khayriya Mazin dance with a stick? There’s no mockery or teasing there—it’s all about, “Look what I can do with the stick in tune with the music!”. Granted, Khayriya belongs to one of the Dom ethnicities, but she is a professional entertainer - an Upper Egyptian ghawazi - so her style is representative of what the local audience expects to see.

On we go in our ruby slippers. 

So, if you mix the Sa‘idi stereotype, an assaya, a tahtib, and a government-approved form of masculinity, what you end up with is what we now know as THE Sa‘idi dance - all thanks to the relentless work of Mahmoud Reda.

Back in the early 1960s, Mr. Reda didn’t just study the traditional dances of the Sa‘idi populations - he also trained with several tahtib masters until he found the one whose style perfectly matched his vision for theatrical performance. You can read more about the process in the beautiful book by Farida Fahmy “Farida: a Memoir” as well as in her master thesis  “The Creative Development of Mahmoud Reda”.  

An early iteration of the dance can be observed in the film Love in Karnak, providing insight into Mahmoud Reda’s initial choreographic approach. 

And thus, a whole new dance tradition was born! It blended something that the practitioners never call ‘dance’ - tahtib - with an actual stick dance, either raqs el assaya or raqs el nizzawi. Let me reiterate what you may or may not have heard before: there are tahtib games, but there is no ‘tahtib dance,’ even though the martial art of tahtib is often practiced to music (mizmar or tabl baladi - more on that later). 

What is seen in the theatricalized version of the stick dance may reflect the vision of what a ‘proper’ folk dance should be in the eyes of upper-class patriots, but it bears little resemblance to how people - both amateurs and professional entertainers - actually perform it in everyday contexts.

Here is an updated version of Reda Troupe’s raqset el assaya. 

There’s more for your viewing pleasure. 

And I simply could not resist including this double-cane version. What a beautiful interpretation! It is clearly of the same root as the previous two choreographies. 

Let’s go back to the video clip from Love in Karnak. Did you notice the complete absence of movements involving the hips and pelvis? ‘Oh, Auntie,’ you might protest, ‘but Egyptian men don’t dance with their hips! Men dance manly, so none of that booty-wiggle business is allowed!’

I hate to break it to you - who am I kidding? I absolutely love the chance to burst your bubble and say it with confidence: Egyptian men - including men of Sa’id -  move their hips when they dance. 

Here comes the evidence - for more of your viewing pleasure! This footage comes from a Sa‘idi wedding with a rababa band in full swing and plenty of men dancing. Watch closely: the dancers flow from nizzawi straight into baladi. Around the three-minute mark, one of the gentlemen ties on a hip scarf to accent his hip/pelvic movements.  This version of baladi is specific to the region. Just as Upper Egyptian ghawazi dance is distinguished by its footwork, closely tied to the percussion, so too is the local baladi style (the percussive character of this style is particularly evident in performances by B’nat Mazin.) 

There’s so much happening in this video I could write another post unpacking it all. Alas, I must restrain myself - for the sake of brevity, if nothing else. 

Just a little teaser: when the camera pans to the drummer’s hands, you’ll notice he’s holding a thin reed stick against the drum. Yes, it’s intentional, and yes, that percussive texture has a name. 

But I’m not sharing it in this post! Or ever. Haha. Deal with it. Love you too!

I’d like to invite you back to that Love in Karnak clip again. This time, close your eyes and just listen. Did you catch the moment when the music switched to doum-tek-doum-doum-tek? Yeah, me neither - because that composition doesn’t actually contain what we now widely call the Sa‘idi rhythm. For the most part, Mahmoud Reda used music composed specifically for his choreographies and had the artistic freedom to use different rhythms in this one.

Here’s the kicker: musicians in Upper Egypt play more than one rhythm. So when exactly did the so-called ‘Sa’idi’ or, as I prefer, ‘inverted baladi’ become the de facto Sa‘idi stick dance rhythm? If you happen to know when and how that nomenclature stuck, please get in touch - I’d genuinely love to find out. 

Of course, local Sa‘idi musicians do have names for the rhythms they play for stick dances. Some refer to it as assaya or juhayni. Very little research has been done in this field, and the need for it feels more pressing than ever. The industry catering to the tastes of tourists and international dance students is tightening its grip on urban centres of Upper Egypt, such as Luxor and Aswan. Inevitably, authentic dance traditions risk being displaced by invented versions designed to fit the expectations of audiences already primed by theatrical folklore. 

I think it’s time for the big ta-da! moment you’ve been waiting for so patiently. Lo and behold, dear Dorothy: the actual stick dance, performed by the actual men of Sa‘id, to real Sa‘idi music.

Magda Saleh’s 1976 footage of raqset el nizzawi. 

I’m sure I don’t have to point out that this is worlds apart from what gets paraded on the festival circuit as ‘traditional’ dance. One might think they belong to entirely unrelated cultures.

Would you like some more modern examples? Here you go.

Mizmar band

Rababa band 

Raqs el Nizzawi, or Raqs el Assaya, is traditionally divided into three sections, each defined by its accompanying rhythmic pattern: Juhayni, Wahda wa Nos, and Arabi. Here, I rely entirely on Magda Saleh’s fieldwork as the primary reference.

A quick tangent: she’s the mastermind behind a documentary we’ll probably have to wait another half a century to see. I’ll spare you my full copyright-bullshit-Mickey-Mouse-law rant for now, but here’s a consolation prize: a link to Saleh’s doctoral dissertation, which was accompanied by a film documenting 17 traditional dances from across Egypt. Mark my words - the day that film finally becomes available for streaming or purchase, the belly dance research world will rave about it at every corner.) 

The two videos I linked above illustrate the Juhayni section particularly well. It’s such a powerful, statement-making dance!

Sure, stick fighting is even more masculine and powerful - it makes for a spectacular show. It must be made clear, however, that theatrical folklore - despite being visually stunning, rich, and captivating - is precisely that: theatre, infused with elements of character dance and, in the case of Egypt, shaped by political agendas. 

I’d like to add a note on musical accompaniment. It’s often repeated that when you hear the ‘Sa‘idi’ rhythm played together with the mizmar, you must automatically perform all the obligatory ‘Sa‘idi’ gestures: the horsey step, stick spinning - or at least miming it - and that hold-the-ghalabeya-sleeve arm position. 

Of course, the mizmar is not the only traditional instrument in Egyptian music, nor is it exclusive to the Sa’id - it is also commonly played in the Delta. In Upper Egypt, one typically encounters two types of ensembles: mizmar and tabl baladi bands, or rababa bands accompanied by a tabla. Both types of ensembles play the music their audience enjoys, and Sa‘idis delight in having fun with their sticks just as much as anyone else. Next time you hear rababa music, listen closely - it might be a call for some stick twirling! 

In conclusion, there is absolutely nothing wrong with studying and performing theatricalized dances; however, it requires a clear understanding of what you are investing your time, money, and effort into. If your motivation is an insatiable desire to understand the living traditions of the past and present, you must critically evaluate your sources. Be an informed consumer. Make choices in your dance journey based on evidence-supported information rather than relying on name-dropping (‘I trained with so-and-so and she told me…’) or promotional poster claims such as ‘queen of baladi.’ 

A final word on sources: I rely heavily on the lectures and publications of Nisaa of St. Louis. This woman is a powerhouse of research in action - not another armchair wanna-be scholar like me. She travels to Egypt annually, asking the locals all the right questions - the very people whose culture we are exploring here. I highly recommend following her on Instagram, where she frequently posts short but extremely informative reels about the authentic history of traditional Egyptian entertainment (yes, not just raqs sharqi!).

For the record, neither the author nor the site owner receives any goods, services, or monetary compensation for the links provided. All links are shared solely for educational and entertainment purposes. 

And honestly, I’d probably explode if I didn’t pass all this info-goodness along!

Have you been told any of the all-too-common clichés surrounding ‘Sa‘idi dance’? 

Want to know the name of the reed-assisted drum piece? Get in touch! 

askauntiehelen@gmail.com

Do you Flex or Point ?

Has your raqs sharqi teacher ever told you to point your toes while dancing because “pointing toes is feminine, and flexing the foot is masculine”? It usually comes as part of the instructions when performing raqs el assaya, or stick dance. You’re there, spinning the cane (the one with the crook, naturally), lifting a foot to attempt what some call the “horse step.” And then, like thunderclap, that voice booms in your head: “POINT YOUR TOES!”

Yes, Dorothy, PTSD is a real thing. No, I do not need professional counselling - just a padded room and maybe a few gallons of coffee. I’ll cry myself to sleep like a responsible adult, thank you very much.

Jokes aside, pointing the toes while dancing is generally considered more aesthetically pleasing. As one teacher said in a workshop I attended a while back: “Extend your energy out of your fingers and toes, through the floor, and beyond.” Poetic, right? And honestly, it works - unless I’m feeling like a contrarian little bitch, in which case all bets are off.

But where does this whole feminine vs. masculine division come from? Well, that’s a rabbit hole we’re not tumbling down today. Let me just say this: you can thank the 1952 revolution in Egypt for that one too. Back then, defining gender and social roles—and purposefully redefining Egyptian self-identity—was very much a governmental priority. It still is.

Here is a video example of what came to be regarded as the gold standard of Egyptian dance arts. Mahmoud Reda and Farida Fahmy. 

It's impossible to interpret Mr. Reda’s movements as anything other than masculine. And the impeccable Farida Fahmy is oh-so-feminine. She appears almost ephemeral in this choreography.

However, I just simplified and crammed at least half a century of Egyptian traditional entertainment into yet another jab at the political influence on the arts. The shift toward definitive representations of male and female roles on stage began much earlier.

In his essay The Male Dancer in the Middle East and Central Asia, Anthony Shay writes: “Second, I address the attitude that solo improvised dance—of which raqs sharqi and çiftetelli/belly dance in Egypt and Turkey are the best-known examples—and other forms of Middle Eastern solo improvised dance in the Iranian world and Central Asia constitute an exclusively, or even primarily, female form of cultural expression. Rather, I attempt to recuperate solo improvised dance as a genre that is danced by everyone in a variety of performances, amateur and professional, by boys and girls, women and men.” ( Anthony Shay, “The Male Dancer in the Middle East and Central Asia,” Dance Research Journal 38, no. 1 & 2 (Summer & Winter 2006): 137–162.)

Ah, this is music to my ears - or rather, candy for my eyes. Many a times I’ve heard female dancers wax lyrical about our modern age and its supposedly enlightened audiences, applauding them for welcoming male belly dance professionals into the fold. The sentiment is genuine, but it’s built on the false premise that male belly dancers were the rarest of breeds in the history of Egyptian entertainment.

If you’ve read my previous post, which was mostly verbal eye rolls at 19th-century Orientalist literature, you’ve probably noticed several quotes harping on about the infamous ban on public dance performances in Cairo. (If you’re into that sort of historical rabbit hole, I highly recommend Before They Were Belly Dancers by Kathleen W. Fraser.)  

There’s one quote in particular that fits today’s topic so perfectly, I’m starting to suspect it planned this post.

‘Many of the people of Cairo, affecting, or persuading themselves, to consider that there is nothing improper in the dancing of the Ghawazee but the fact of its being performed by females, who ought not thus to expose themselves, employ men to dance in the same manner ; but the number of these male performers, who are mostly young men, and who are called “ Khawals,” is very small. They are Muslims, and natives of Egypt. As they personate women, their dances are exactly of the same description as those of the Ghawazee, and are, in like manner, accompanied by the sounds of castanets ; but, as if to prevent their being thought to be really females, their dress is suited to their unnatural profession, being partly male and partly female. It chiefly consists of a tight vest, a girdle, and a kind of petticoat. Their general appearance, however, is more feminine than masculine. They suffer the hair of the head to grow long, and generally braid it, in the manner of the women. The hair on the face, when it begins to grow, they pluck out ; and they imitate the women also in applying kohl and henna to their eyes and hands. In the streets, when not engaged in dancing, they often even veil their faces ; not from shame, but merely to affect the manners of women. They are often employed, in preference to the Ghawazee, to dance before a house, or in its court, on the occasion of a marriage, or the birth of a child, or a circumcision ; and frequently perform at public festivals.

There is in Cairo another class of male dancers, young men and boys, whose performances, dress, and general appearance are almost exactly similar to those of the Khawals, but who are distinguished by a different appellation, which is “Gink” — a term that is Turkish, and has a vulgar signification which aptly expresses their character. They are generally Jews, Armenians, Greeks, and Turks.’

Edward William Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians: Written in Egypt During the Years 1833–1835 (London: John Murray, 1836), 387-388.

There you have it, Dorothy - the primary historical evidence of a male professional presence in what would later evolve into raqs sharqi, along with a detailed account of the absence of any ‘masculine vs. feminine’ movement vocabulary at the time.

The end!

Just kidding. Brace yourself and suffer through some more of my gloriously semi-coherent ramblings on the subject.

Here’s another quote that sent me tail-spinning with excitement. This one was tough - I had to use Google Translate since my French is so rudimentary, I might as well say it’s non-existent.

‘A dancer — that was Hassan el Bilbesi: coiffed and dressed as a woman, his hair plaited in a headband, embroidered jacket, black eyebrows painted, very ugly, gold piastres falling on his back — around his body, in a baldric, a chain of large square gold amulets — he plays cymbals — splendid twists of the belly and hips — he rolls his belly like a flood — a great final bow in which his trousers have swollen, widespread.’

This passage is followed by a footnote:

‘Dressed as a woman: there were many transvestite dancers in Cairo at the time, because of the ban on almaees. To put an end to what he considered to be a risk of widespread debauchery, Muhammad Ali, in 1834, had women's dances banned in Cairo altogether. The new viceroy, Abbas Pasha, who was more interested in the male sex, had not reversed these decisions, but had them enforced even more severely. Thus, women's dances had become clandestine - which favoured libertinism and added to it the flavour of risk - and public dances were reserved for transvestites, which did not displease the pasha. Hassan el Bilbeisi (which Flaubert also writes Haçan El Bilbessi) was very fashionable in Cairo at that time.’

Further in the text we find this gem:

‘Bambeh has henna on her hands (she served as a maid in Cairo, in an Italian house, and hears a few words of Italian — a little sore in her eyes). Their dance, moreover, except for Kuchiouk's mentioned above, is not much as good as that of Hassan El Bilbesi. Joseph's opinion is that all beautiful women dance badly.’

Gustave Flaubert, Voyage en Égypte (Paris: B. Grasset, 1991), 195, 283.

As always, I cannot stress enough the importance of reading the original sources I cite.

But for the sake of argument - and time efficiency - let’s assume the translations are on point.

According to Flaubert, male dancers were abundant in Cairo and they were good. At least one of them was: Hassan el Bilbeisi. If you read the original text, you’ll also find another detailed description of Hassan’s costume, which bears little resemblance to what an almah or ghaziya would have worn at the time.

So, what does it all tell us?

First and foremost, male dancers are not newcomers - they’ve been around for centuries. They likely assumed neither a strictly male nor a definitively female stage persona (and no, we’re not going to wander down the rabbit hole of speculating about their offstage identities - that’s well outside the scope of this post). Their costuming, too, was unique to their position within the entertainment world.

Having read through numerous 19th- and early 20th-century travelogues in recent months, I can’t help but wonder why accounts of male dance performances are so rarely invoked to illustrate the diversity and complexity of traditional arts in the so-called Orient.

The short answer? Orientalism and those prudish Victorian sensibilities that still manage to haunt us to this day. The long answer would require a bibliography so extensive, scrolling through it would take the better part of your week (and possibly your will to live).

Moving along!

Male dancers were still present in the early 20th century, as Zouba al-Klobatiyya recounts in this interview, where she describes watching a male dancer perform raqs el shamadan in one of the entertainment halls.

Let’s keep moving up the historical timeline. This 1958 Egyptian film, The Charmer, features the wonderful Ibrahim Akef breaking into a celebratory dance for his fellow inmate who is about to be released. Do you see his performance as either feminine or masculine? I fail to notice any distinction. To me, it belongs in a category of its own.

I’m purposefully leaving out the huge legacy left behind by the Reda Troupe. You don’t need to watch hours of footage to notice the clear division in how Mahmoud Reda portrayed the sexes in his choreography.

However, the Reda-inspired belly dance teaching circuit seems to be the source of this ‘point or flex’ narrative. The division into masculine and feminine movement vocabulary correlates with the post-1952 revolution effort to construct a strong national identity in Egypt.

Oh, but what about the men performing raqs sharqi in the West, you might ask? Glad you did, Dorothy! The cultural upheavals of the 1960s and 1970s introduced Western audiences to male belly dance performers.

Still limited in numbers, they nonetheless left a mark on the modern perception of gender in belly dance. I strongly recommend reading this excerpt from The Salimpour Compendium. It is a poignant and often heartbreaking account of what men endured to practice raqs sharqi. It also addresses the devastating impact of HIV/AIDS on the community of male performers before the advent of antiretroviral medications. Try not to cry for every talent lost far too soon.

Enter the present day. There are numerous ‘big-name’ male belly dancers, each bringing a unique spin and a one-of-a-kind stage persona. Many share their expertise on a global scale, leading international workshops. On the surface, it might look like men are barging into what is often considered an intrinsically women’s profession. I see it as people reclaiming what was always meant for all genders and identities. The hip drop doesn’t care about your chromosomes. Mindblowing, ain’t it?

Surely you’re familiar with one of the most renowned male dancers of our time: Tito Seif.

But there are many more! I can’t pick favourites - I’m thoroughly mesmerised and enchanted by them all.

However, I suggest taking a look at the following list of links to help nudge your YouTube algorithm toward a more diverse and dazzling selection of video recommendations.

Rachid Alexander

Follow on Instagram. 

Tommy King

Follow on Instagram. 

Eliya 

Follow on Instagram. 

Wonjoong Ahn

Follow on Instagram. 

Prince Kayyamer

Follow on Instagram. 

DaVid of Scandinavia

Erhan Ay

Follow on Instagram. 

Kamrah

Follow on Instagram. 

Ilhan Karabacak

Follow on Instagram. 

Last but not least, I’d like you to see this wonderful dancer of a different variety: he performs Tunisian Chaabi - mostly female folkloric and social dance from North Africa.

Achraf El Abed.

Well, that should keep you glued to the screen for a while, Dorothy!

Final note: this post does not attempt to tackle the complex issues of sex, gender, sexual orientation, or freedom of self-identity. It focuses solely on the history of what is commonly referred to as belly dance. All links to videos of supposedly male dancers are labeled as such either because the performers themselves use the title ‘male belly dancer’ or because the videos were uploaded to their official channels under that title. I make no assumptions nor claims about pronouns, sexual preferences or the biological sex of the artists. And you shouldn’t either.

What is your favorite professional male dancer? Get in touch and let me know!

askauntiehelen@gmail.com