S#!t Orientalists Say...

 Is it necessary to agree with a source if the information it provides offers valuable insight into a particular historical period? Absolutely not! Knowledge doesn’t come with a loyalty oath—unless you're nostalgically clinging to the golden age of armchair Orientalism.

So today, dear Dorothy, we dive headfirst into the vast and murky abyss shaped by centuries of Western engagement with the so-called 'Orient'—a construct often informed less by nuanced observation and more by projection, fantasy, and the occasional bout of swaggering superiority complex.

Here’s what you can expect from this blog post.

I will provide ten quotes that, in my opinion, enhance our understanding of the cultural environment of Egyptian entertainment before the Golden Era of belly dance (and Egyptian cinema). The primary focus of these quotes will be their relevance to raqs sharqi. I’ll do my absolute best to keep any snarky remarks to myself—though no promises—and, wherever applicable, I will also highlight what I found particularly valuable in each account, if only to suggest that not all Orientalist rambling is created equal.

I will abstain from using formal quotation styles and citation standards typically found in academic writing. This is by no means an academic work. You won’t find specific page numbers either—my hidden agenda is to encourage you to read the source material yourself. Or at the very least, master the noble art of the search-in-file function. However, the references should give you all you need—should you feel compelled to undertake your own delightfully frustrating journey down that academic rabbit hole.

There’s no particular order of priority in which the quotes will appear—this isn’t a dramatic 'Top 10' countdown. Nor will they be presented chronologically, because that would imply a level of order and discipline I’m simply not pretending to have. Consider this a loose (and chaotic) collection of things to ponder.

Before we begin, however, indulge me in one extra quote to set the stage. It needs no commentary—though I assure you, I was tempted.

“Tis a particular pleasure to me here to read the voyages to the Levant, which are generally so far remov’d from Truth and so full of Absurditys I am very well diverted with ’em. They never fail giving you an Account of the Women, which ’tis certain they never saw, and talking very wisely of the Genius of the Men, into whose Company they are never admitted, and very often describe Mosques, which they dare not peep into.” (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, The Turkish Embassy Letters (1717–1718), ed.  Teresa Heffernan, Daniel O'Quinn, Broadview Press, 2012. )

1. “Solemn Arabians in every fantastic dress, some in modern coats and fes, others with turbans and jewelled robes, sit about smoking their pipes, and without a smile on their countenance, while a girl laden with jewels and ropes of pearls on her neck, and in every plait of her hair, twists and twirls about the stage with solemn slow iteration. She has on her hands rough castanets with which she beats the maddening time to a tune so hideous that the European nerves tremble at it. Her feet scarcely seem to move. But the expression comes from the centre of the body, which shakes like jelly. On and on she goes, round and round, perpetually twisting, wagging her body just as some people can wag their noses and their ears, until at last she sinks exhausted on the sofa” (Clement Scott. Egyptian Dancing. Evelyn Observer, and South and East Bourke Record. February 2, 1894.)

Though I risk sounding like a broken record, I implore you to read the full article! Yes, the print quality leaves much to be desired—but it’s mercifully short, so your eyesight should survive. It’s… quite something. However! I did promise not to label every quote with 'jerk,' tempting though it may be. What’s particularly interesting here, in my opinion, is that we’re offered not only a glimpse into the dance dynamic itself, but also a brief description of what both the dancer and the audience are wearing—details that vividly set the tone of the evening. 

2. “I dined last night with Mustafa, who again had the dancing-girls for some Englishmen to see. Seleem Efendi got the doctor, who was of the party, to prescribe for him all about his ailments, as coolly as possible. He as usual sat by me on the divan, and during the pause in the dancing, called " El Maghribeeyeh," the best dancer, to come and talk to us. She kissed my hand, sat on her heels before us, and at once laid aside the professional gaillardise of manner, and talked very nicely in very good Arabic, and with perfect propriety, more like a man than a woman ; she seemed very intelligent. What a thing we should think it, for a worshipful magistrate to call up a girl of that character to talk to a lady!” (Lady Lucie Duff Gordon. Letters From Egypt (1863-1865). Macmillan. 1865.) 

Imagine that—a performer with a brain! 

If your vocabulary is as unrefined as mine, fear not—‘gaillardise’ simply means ‘cheerfulness.’ But doesn’t it read as a textbook case of the dancer adapting a stage persona? 

Admittedly, this account would have been far more valuable had the lady offered even the vaguest description of the actual performance. But alas—we must make do with crumbs, as always.

3. “Later, several of us visited a native music hall where Egyptian girls danced and sang to the accompaniment of native musicians. The audience of native men smoked cigarettes, seldom speaking, except when specially pleased, when they would raise both hands toward the stage and call "Allah !" "Allah !" sometimes tossing coins to the singer who was a beautiful girl, — who smiled and sang again and again. There were no words — only ah, or oh — or 00 — but the tunes were full of suggestions and memories that charmed the initiated. To me they were sweetly clear, high notes with a peculiarly haunting, plaintive melody. There was no drinking and no boisterous behavior.” (Etta Josselyn Giffin.The Eleventh Convention of the American Association of Workers for the Blind. Connecticut Institute for the Blind. 1911.) 

This account is by far an outlier—and a gem—in its unusually positive view of the traditional Egyptian entertainment scene. The author focuses primarily on the singer in this passage, though she does mention the dancers. And isn’t there just a hint of bewilderment at the absence of 'boisterous behaviour'? I find that rather fascinating.

4. “In front of these performers, and facing us, were eight dancing girls, or Ghawazees, seated, a la mode turque, on the floor, and dressed in various and most brilliantly-coloured garments. I may describe, for example, that of the best-looking (and Ghawazees seldom have much pretensions to beauty), a Nubian girl. She wore a tightly-fitting chemise of yellow colour, the sleeves of which came down to her wrists, where they were fastened by a narrow band of silver work. Hanging from her shoulders was an open-breasted green tunic, the loose folds of which reached almost to her ankles, disclosing when she danced a pair of gorgeous red trousers.” (Julian T. Biddulph Arnold. Palms and temples; being notes of a four months' voyage upon the Nile. Tinsley brothers. 1882.) 

My, oh my. The detailed description of the dancer’s costume is invaluable—but even more striking is the fact that the author explicitly notes she is Nubian. This is an important record that complicates the usual sweeping generalizations about the ghawazi background. The classic ‘They are a Roma tribe’ line really doesn’t hold up unchallenged anymore, does it?

5. “Cairo abounds in Egyptian cafes, where dances by the soidisant [supposed] members of the Ghawazee tribe are the sole attractions. They are, however, altogether lacking in local colour, and are, in fact, run by enterprising Greeks and Levantines for European visitors, and the performance is as banal and vulgar as at any cafe chantant in Antwerp or Amsterdam. The whole show consists of a few wailing musicians sitting on a raised platform at one end of the cafe, accompanying the endless gyrations of a stout young woman of unprepossessing features, who postures in particularly ungraceful and unedifying attitudes. Then her place is taken by another, equally ill-favoured and obese, who goes through the same interminable gyrations, to be relieved in her turn, and this goes on hour after hour. This strange “ unvariety show” is, nevertheless, one of the established sights of Cairo and is frequented in great numbers by tourists. Genuine performances of these dancing girls are seldom seen in Cairo except occasionally at weddings among the rich Cairenes and, in fact, the public dances of the Gawazee are forbidden by the authorities. They can, however, be seen at most of the towns of the Upper Nile Valley, especially at Keneh and Isneh.” (Eustace A. Reynolds Ball. The City of the Chaliphs. T Fisher Unwin. 1898.)

At first glance, this quote might sound worse than it actually is. It’s yet another reminder of how essential it is to understand context and nuance. I urge you to read a few more pages of the original text—it’s worth it! Think of it as your 19th-century equivalent of a Google review. The author discusses the entertainment scene in Cairo during both the high and low seasons. But what fascinates me most isn’t the overview—it’s the mention of 'genuine performances' at the weddings of well-to-do Cairenes. This suggests the author distinguishes between the lacklustre café shows aimed at European tourists and the more authentic experiences enjoyed by locals. If you weren’t already wary of taking Orientalist travel literature at face value when it comes to traditional Egyptian entertainment—here’s your sign.

6. “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-fete, or the birth of a child, or a circumcision ; and frequently perform at public festivals.” (Edward William Lane. An Account of the Manner and Customs of the Modern Egyptians : Written in Egypt During the Years, 1833-1835. A. Gardner. 1895.)

It’s high time we put the tired old adage of 'this is a women-only dance' to rest. I’m positively delighted that the author goes out of his way to clarify that the khawals weren’t trying to pass as women—they were feminine, yes, but not fully impersonating females. Ah, nuance! My favourite endangered species.

If you follow the hyperlink to the original source, you’ll find that Edward Lane devotes an entire chapter to public dancers, along with other fascinating topics like baths, music, festivals, and female ornaments. It’s an entertaining read—just don’t mistake it for gospel truth. That said, many of Lane’s observations manage to deliver insights that remain surprisingly useful even today.

Given how much material Lane’s book offers, expecting me to stick to just one quote would be an act of self-restraint I am wholly unprepared for. And let’s be honest—would this post even be complete without stirring up a bit more controversy? Perish the thought!

7. “Egypt has long been celebrated for its public dancing-girls, the most famous of whom are of a distinct tribe called “ Ghawazee.” A female of this tribe is called “Ghazeeyeh,” and a man “Ghazee;” but the plural Ghawazee is generally understood as applying to the females. The error into which most travellers in Egypt have fallen, of confounding the common dancing-girls of this country with the A’l’mehs, who are female singers, has already been exposed. The Ghawazee perform unveiled in the public streets, even to amuse the rabble. Their dancing has little of elegance. They commence with a degree of decorum ; but soon, by more animated looks, by a more rapid collision of their castanets of brass, and by increased energy in every motion, they exhibit a spectacle exactly agreeing with the descriptions which Martial and Juvenal have given of the performances of the female dancers of Gades.” (See the source of the previous quote)

Lane is mistaken in his assertion that the 'almehs'—or, as we know them, the awalem—were exclusively singers. To understand his perspective, read the previous chapter of his book on Egyptian music. Then, compare his account with those of other contemporary Orientalists. The awalem were well-rounded entertainers, and reducing them to mere vocal performers does a disservice to a fascinating profession that seems to have disappeared by the late 20th century. 

8. “Singing and dancing women are engaged for the occasion [marrying off hareem slaves] , and several girls bearing censers, and others sprinkling perfumes, attend each bride. You have heard and read of the Arab dancing, which is far from delicate, but the dancing in the Turkish hareems is not in any respect objectionable. The girls throw themselves about extravagantly, but frequently gracefully ; and turn heels over head with amusing dexterity. It is not a pleasing exhibition, but not a disgusting one.” (Sophia Lane-Pool. The Englishwoman in Egypt. G. B. Zieber & co. 1845.)

Lane-Poole writes about her first-hand experience visiting the hareems of high-ranking Turkish officials in Egypt. (Remember, before the British colonialists arrived, Egypt was under Ottoman rule—with Napoleon also taking his turn at claiming the land, because apparently everyone wanted a piece.) The juxtaposition of Arab and Turkish dancers is striking. I suppose 'not disgusting' counts as a compliment? 

What puzzles me most is the phrase 'and turn heels over head with amusing dexterity.' While Turkish public performers—particularly men—were known for their acrobatic feats, this serves as direct evidence that female entertainers also included similar tricks in their repertoire, even in the privacy of the hareems.

9. “Notwithstanding the licentious life of these females, they are introduced into the harems to instruct the young persons of their sex in all that may render them agreeable to their future husbands. They give them lessons of dancing, singing, gracefulness, and, in general, of all voluptuous attainments. It is not surprising, that with manners which make the principal duty of women to consist in bestowing pleasure, those who follow the profession of gallantry should be the teachers of the fair sex. They are admitted to the festivals which the grandees give to those of their own rank; and when, from time to time, a husband wishes to entertain his harem in a particular manner, they are also sent for.” (Vivant Denon. Travels in Upper and Lower Egypt. Originally published in 1803. Translation published by Arno Press. 1973.) 

Reading the few pages preceding this quote makes it clear that the author is referring to a group of public performers—seven in total—and even names two of them: Josephina and Hanka. In this instance, it’s the sex-ed aspect that I find particularly enlightening. Baron Denon, a French savant credited with laying the groundwork for what would become Egyptology, manages to conflate an astonishing amount into one short paragraph—I genuinely can’t even. But you get the point: these entertainers had another important role to play—as instructors in all things carnal.

10. “Did I tell you that Esneh is the head-quarter to which the Ghawazee, or dancing women of Cairo, were banished by order of the Viceroy ? (. . .) Of the original Cairobred Ghawazee, only two now remain, and one of these, the celebrated Sofia, the favourite of Abbas Pasha (Mahommed Ali's grandson, and the governor of Cairo,) who kept a separate establishment for her, before the race became proscribed, now lives in Esneh. As this woman was considered one of the most accomplished Ghawazee in Egypt, I was very curious to see her, and we therefore desired Mohammed to arrange that she should exhibit herself, and some specimens of her talents, to us ; premising that English taste cannot tolerate those wanton displays in which the Eastern dancing-women sometimes indulge, and which form the most attractive part of their art in the opinion of their own countrypeople. (. . .) Sofia's dress was so handsome that it merits to be described; — besides, as the fashion of it is that of the great ladies of Cairo, I think it will interest you. (. . .) We computed that she carried about three hundred and fifty pounds on her person in coins alone, without including her other ornaments. (. . .) As to her dancing or rather pantomime, nothing can be less graceful or more monotonous ; striking her silver castanets, sometimes with her arms half raised, sometimes with her hands stretched out before her, she shuffled about upon a very small space of ground without executing anything like a step ; in short, she put every part of her body into movement except her feet. She had been warned to restrain herself, and she did, for there was no absolute violation of decorum in her performance ; but in the sample she gave us of her skill, there was neither poetry, nor imagination, nor ideality, — it was " of the earth, earthy," — the nymph was a clod of clay, and her inspirations were not warmed by one spark of the feu sacre [sacred fire], which sometimes for a moment converts clay into something little less than divine!” (Isabella Frances Romer. A Pilgrimage to the Temples and Tombs of Egypt, Nubia and Palestine in 1845-6. R. Bentley, 1846.)  

Wow. I rather desperately needed a moment to cool off before diving back into the commentary—my eye-rolls were approaching unsafe velocity. 

Those ellipses I inserted? They’re covering several pages of peak colonial smugness. Reading Romer’s book is its own form of intellectual masochism—her gold-standard imperial condescension is usually dialled up to eleven, and this passage is no exception. She painstakingly details Sofiya’s costume, even assigning it a monetary value (as one does when reducing humans to decorative objects), yet doesn’t so much as pretend to grasp the dance itself. Her description—'of the earth, earthy'—reads less like poetic observation and more like an unconcealed insult. And then, she has the audacity to complain that the performance lacks 'ideality'. It’s safe to assume that by 'ideality,' she means dance aesthetics sufficiently sanitized to please her refined Western sensibilities—and, of course, to meet the ever-so-exalted standards of European high art. 

Aside from its fixation on how stationary Sofiya’s dancing was—and an exhausting two-page ode to her costume—this account contributes next to nothing to the grand narrative of dance history. But Dorothy, darling, don’t take my word for it—read the original text, especially the parts I so mercifully spared you. What if I’ve misread, misquoted, or catastrophically misunderstood the author's intent? 

Yes, Auntie Helen may exude the full regalia of a self-declared High Priestess of Historical Accuracy—behold her sequinned sceptre of citations—but even the most divinely anointed beings must, from time to time, submit to the sacred rite of the fact-check!

And so concludes our unapologetic plunge into the wild, wondrous world of the nonsense Orientalists have spouted over the course of more than a century. 

As always, if you have thoughts, questions, or even outraged rebuttals, do get in touch. Your comments often prompt me to dig deeper into ideas long paraded as unshakeable truths—or deemed far too indecorous for the delicate ears of 'polite society' (ahem… the workshop and teaching circuit… ahem) desperately trying to image-control belly dance into either 'high art' or 'not art at all, because I said so'. 

Until next time—stay sceptical, bring snacks, and never trust a footnote without side-eye.

askauntiehelen@gmail.com

It's a Wrap

Good things come to those who wait!

After years of persistently (and perhaps a tad annoyingly) requesting a Melaya Leff class, my wish was finally granted! A much-beloved local instructor, with decades of teaching experience, agreed to lead an introductory five-week course on dancing with the Melaya Leff this term. To say I'm delighted would be an understatement!

Since my love language is sharing every morsel of relevant information on the subject with the world, consider this your seatbelt reminder, Dorothy—because we're about to take a ride down the rabbit hole!

The melaya leff is, first and foremost, a recognizable element of traditional Egyptian attire, holding the esteemed status of being part of the country's cultural dress. 

According to Farida Fahmy, the popularity of the melaya leff as a garment peaked between the mid-1920s and the 1960s. If you're unfamiliar with Farida Fahmy, I highly recommend exploring the history of the Reda Troupe. A great starting point is Madame Fahmy's recent book, Farida: A Memoir. 

In this short video, Farida Fahmy briefly explains how the dance involving a traditional modesty garment originated and its significance at the time. She also explicitly states that this dance was created by the Reda Troupe and should not be considered traditional or folkloric. 

Here you have it—from one of the founding members of the most influential dance troupes in modern Egyptian history: the dance with the melaya is a recent invention, despite what some dance instructors might tell you. 

While it's debated whether Mahmoud Reda's work marked the first use of the melaya leff as a dance prop, our focus here is on the impact his original creation had within the belly dance sphere. 

Perhaps you've heard of 'Eskandarani' or Alexandrian dance? Over time, the term 'Eskandarani' became synonymous with dancing with the melaya leff, as it was assumed that the woman wrapped in the shawl hailed from Alexandria. Given that Alexandria is a bustling port city with a significant fishing industry, the dance's reputation became entangled in a net of frivolous assumptions—some even suggesting it depicted flirtatious fisherwomen reeling in sailors.

In her 2014 article, Farida Fahmy expresses her bewilderment at such developments, noting that the original idea of the dance was rooted in deep respect for the melaya leff itself and for the women who wore it.

Tarnished reputation aside, the original skit from the Reda Troupe's tableau portrayed a woman from Cairo's old neighborhoods. At the time of its creation, Mahmoud Reda had not yet embarked on his extensive research into Egypt's regional dances. Instead, he drew inspiration from the everyday scenes of his youth—specifically, the bint al-balad (literally, 'daughter of the home land'), the spirited and street-savvy women of Old Cairo. In essence, before Reda ventured into the diverse dance traditions of Egypt, he choreographed what he knew best: the lively ladies of his own backyard.  

In this interview with Shira, Mahmoud Reda offers a vivid account of the playful skit “El Erkesous” he crafted to capture the essence of the bint al-balad. While his early works often embraced comedic elements, in this particular tableau, it's the syrup vendor who ends up in a sticky situation. 

Most likely, we'll never know how something so innocuous and family-friendly evolved into a dance that some perceive as representing sex workers from a fishing port.

As I've mentioned numerous times before, the level of 'sexiness' a dancer chooses to convey during their performance depends on various factors, including personal preferences, stage setting, and audience expectations. 

It's important to remember that dancing with the melaya leff is a theatrical creation and not a traditional Egyptian folk dance. However, the melaya leff itself is a garment with a long history and a respected cultural significance that should be honored when presented on stage. But hey, you do you! 

While interpretations of the melaya leff dance can vary—from sultry renditions to more modest, censorship-approved versions—there are several key elements that consistently define this theatrical performance:

1. The Melaya Leff itself. Various sizes of wraps are available, so find what works best for you. The fabric can range from silk to jersey. Remember, the shawl is meant to conceal, so opt for a heavier material. Shiny paillettes are a modern addition, but melayas adorned with paillettes are the most commonly available type these days.

2. Bint Al-Balad persona. Regardless of the level of sensuality portrayed, this dance consistently embodies a well-recognized character: the bint al-balad. She's smart, savvy, dependable, and loyal—the quintessential "girl next door" from the working-class neighborhoods of Egypt, whether in Alexandria or Cairo. Conveying this persona through choreography and body language is what makes dancing with the melaya leff stand out.

3. Costuming. A colourful (or at least contrasting to the wrap) short-sleeved, fitted dress that falls just below the knee has become the staple attire for dancing with the melaya leff. Variations abound, so choose what YOUR bint al-balad character would wear. The mandil, a headscarf often adorned with pom-poms and silk flowers, is a traditional accessory that adds a folkloric touch to the costume. The shib-shib, or slip-on shoes, are commonly worn, but going barefoot is also acceptable, especially if dancing in heels is a step too far.

4. Playfulness and Flirtation. There's an unmistakable coquettish charm to this dance. The bint al-balad character is confident and savvy—she knows what she wants and isn't afraid to show it. Yet, she remains feminine and endearing. Her wrap clings tightly, subtly revealing her curves, while her uncovered arm moves gracefully, ever ready to adjust the melaya leff as it teases slipping away. This dance is flirtatious but never frivolous—a playful wink rather than a bold proposition. 

5. Music. The original production of the Melaya Leff dance by the Reda Troupe featured music specifically composed for the performance by the troupe’s chief composer, Ali Ismail. Further productions included music by other contemporary composers. Since the dance isn’t traditional, there is no traditional music associated with it. This absence provides dancers with creative liberty in music selection. Choosing a baladi composition that complements the dance's theatrical nature and facilitates the playful portrayal of the “daughter of the home land” character is advisable.

A few other characteristics that, in my opinion, do not define this dance but are worth mentioning:

1. Face Veil. Despite its name sounding similar to the full-body covering known worldwide, the burqu or bur’a is a partial niqab. It extends from the bridge of the nose down to the chest. You can read more about face coverings throughout Egyptian history here. However, the face covering worn by the esteemed Farida Fahmy in this famous photo was specifically designed to be see-through, allowing her facial expressions to remain clearly visible. The inclusion of the face veil in Melaya Leff performances adds a layer of authenticity and pays homage to the traditional attire of Egyptian women. It complements the modesty implied by the melaya while allowing for the expressive storytelling that characterizes the dance. Thus, the veil serves as both a cultural artifact and a functional costume element, enhancing the overall impact of the performance. Ultimately, incorporating the face veil into a Melaya Leff performance is a personal choice, unless you're aiming to recreate a specific time period or replicate a particular performance.

2. Solo or Group Performance. The original theatrical skit, choreographed by Mahmoud Reda for the Reda Troupe, featured a solo female dancer interacting with a male character—played by Reda himself—portraying Erkesous, the licorice syrup vendor. This comedic tableau captured everyday life in Old Cairo, highlighting the spirited bint al-balad character. As the Reda Troupe's repertoire expanded, subsequent iterations of the Melaya Leff incorporated multiple dancers, each adorned with their own melayas. This evolution allowed for more dynamic staging and enriched the portrayal of urban Egyptian women's lives.

3. “Tefresh lo el melaya”. In Egyptian culture, the saying "tefresh lo el melaya" refers to a woman so enraged that she casts her melaya to the ground, freeing her hands to gesture emphatically—or perhaps to engage in a more direct confrontation. This expression was humorously depicted in the aforementioned "El Erkesous" by the Reda Troupe, where the female character, after being splashed with syrup by a vendor, dramatically discards her melaya in a comedic display of indignation. So, if you're planning to replicate a specific performance, remember: when the melaya hits the floor, it's not just a wardrobe malfunction—it's a theatrical declaration of "I've had enough!"

4. Chewing gum. Yes, chewing gum has been incorporated into Melaya Leff choreography to "enhance the character's sassiness" and "add a layer of flirtatiousness and modernity to the character." Nadia Hamdi, for instance, was known for her playful portrayal, which included pretend gum-chewing. However, Mahmoud Reda and Farida Fahmy considered gum-chewing during performances to be vulgar, akin to spitting, and believed that someone who respects the melaya as a modesty garment would avoid such behavior. At the end of the day, you do you!

I hope this unexpected tumble down yet another rabbit hole—something I'm exceptionally skilled at discovering—has added a touch of theatrical folklore to your understanding of what we affectionately call raqs sharqi. Consider it a whimsical stroll through history, with a few hip shimmies and a dramatic veil toss or two.

Please allow me one more friendly reminder though.

I know I might sound like a broken record (or perhaps a well-worn zill), but let me shamelessly repeat myself: blending innovation with genuine respect for the roots of any belly dance subgenre is a recipe for success. Think of it as adding your own spice to a classic dish—delicious, as long as you honor the original flavor. 

When portraying cultural heritage that isn't your own, mindfulness is key.

I’d like to leave you with one of my favourite modern renditions of the Melaya Leff by the wonderful Amanda Rose. 

Have a thought to share? Get in touch: askauntiehelen@gmail.com

We don't know, and it's OK

Believe it or not, it has been over a month, but I’m still riding the high from the recent student recital experience I had the privilege of sharing with the audience and my fellow dancers. Raqs Shamadan—oh, how I love thee now, though it wasn’t love at first sight.

Like many of us, I once believed the candelabrum belonged solely to wedding celebrations, particularly the Zaffat. The Zaffa is an Egyptian wedding procession, and the most familiar to us is Zaffa al-Arous — the bridal procession that carries the bride from her childhood home to the new home she will share with her husband.

Since it's safe to say that most of us here in the West will likely never have the chance to witness—let alone participate in—an Egyptian wedding, I had always regarded the shamadan as a challenging, quirky prop with no real place in the average hobby dancer’s toolkit. What fun rabbit holes one can fall into while trying to learn more!

As always, I started with my go-to book: 

“The candelabrum dance/ Raqs al Shemadan is a perfect example, starting with a professional performer wanted to do something different in the wedding zeffa (procession) for which she was hired, so she danced with a large, lit klop (an oil lamp) on her head. As a result, she became known as Zouba el Kloptiyya: “Zouba, the lantern lady”. Then Shafika el Koptiyya (Shafika, the Copt) decided to dance with a lit candelabra on her head. The audience liked those dances, so other performers did them and it became something expected in a bridal zeffa - traditional.” (Dinicu, C. Varga. You Asked Aunt Rocky: Answers & Advice About Raqs Sharqi & Raqs Shaabi. RDI Publications, 2011.)

There’s a lot to unpack in this citation from Morocco’s wonderful—though not always evidence-based—book. Let’s take it one assertion at a time:

• Prior to this instance, the zaffat did not include dancers balancing lit up props  

• The act in question was so significant and well-attested that it gave the dancer her name

• Only later did another dancer expand on the idea of live fire on the head, and thus the tradition of shamadan-lit wedding processions was born.

At first glance, none of the assertions I listed seem impossible. However, when the principle of Occam’s razor is applied, the chain of events appears less probable. It also becomes more mundane—and perhaps takes away some of the magic we tend to associate with the early days of raqs sharqi.

At the age of 13, Zouba al-Klobatiyya was married off to a man whose job was to light gas-powered street lamps at night — a common practice before widespread electrification. The lamps were globe- or 'klob'-shaped, and unsurprisingly, the profession of lighting them at dusk was called klobati. Taking a stage name is neither new nor unusual — artists do it all the time. So, assuming that Zouba’s early marriage contributed to her nickname isn’t far-fetched. She did go on to marry several more times, but we know and love her as Zouba, the Lantern Lady. 

In this 2017 article, Youssef El Sherif’s 1960 interview with Zouba al-Klobatiyya is cited from his book What Happened in the Land of Egypt. In the interview, Zouba explicitly states that she did not invent the shamadan dance. Rather, she observed a man—remarkably, a male performer—dancing with a candelabrum at one of the prominent dance halls of the period and chose to emulate him. Given the later popularity of the shamadan tradition, it is reasonable to assume that, had she been its true originator, Zouba would have claimed credit during an interview with a respected journalist. Notably, she demonstrates no reluctance in highlighting her widespread acclaim during the peak years of her career.

Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that the oil lamp performance occurred as described by Morocco. Could it have inspired Shafiqa al-Qibtiyya to “elevate” the idea by incorporating it into her own wedding procession performances? Not without a time machine! 

Historical records place the peak of Shafiqa’s career between approximately 1890 and 1910. While future digitization of archives and other primary sources may reveal further insights into the life of Shafiqa The Copt, one fact remains clear: Zouba could not have been the source of her inspiration. Zouba’s most active years—roughly 1930 to 1950—came at least a decade after the presumed death of Shafiqa, who is believed to have passed away sometime in the 1920s.

As for the shamadan’s role in Egyptian wedding zaffat, we simply lack a reliable source that definitively identifies the time and place of the first candelabrum-lit procession. The absence of documentation presents a challenge, particularly within a Western epistemological framework that often favours certainty and linear historical narratives. Nonetheless, it is important to acknowledge the limitations of the available evidence. It may not be easy, but we must accept that, when it comes to the earliest instance of a shamadan being incorporated into a wedding celebration, all we can say with relative confidence is that the practice gained popularity around the turn of the 19th to the 20th century.

The same considerations apply to Raqs Shamadan as a distinct dance style. Its rise in popularity coincided with the peak of Shafiqa Al-Qibtiyya’s prominence as an almeh in Cairo. Could she have been the first professional entertainer to introduce this particular dance to the world? Yes. Is it highly highly likely? Nah. To date, no primary sources have emerged that definitively attribute the candelabrum dance to Shafiqa as its originator. 

Furthermore, we know that balancing acts, including the balancing of lit candles, were already part of the broader pre-raqs sharqi tradition long before Raqs Shamadan became a specific dance style. You can refer to my previous post on the matter: photos from 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris are as primary a source as one can get. 

What conclusions can we draw from all the facts and propositions I’ve presented?

We don’t know who invented Raqset al-Shamadan, and that’s OK, because at the end of the day, does it really matter? 

In my completely unbiased and totally objective opinion, what truly matters is that every dancer should get the chance to strut their stuff with a glorious candelabrum on their head! Floorwork and finger cymbals? Well, those are negotiable.

Are you candelabrum-curious? Get in touch and let me know! 

askauntiehelen@gmail.com