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