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