Believe it or not, Egyptians had Agency

Dear Dorothy,

After nearly two years of writing this blog, I have finally taken the hint. (To be fair, it's difficult to hear constructive criticism over the furious clatter of my own keyboard.)

Apparently, not everyone wants a 4,000-word deep dive into the history of a dance term, a balancing prop, or an obscure Egyptian Ministry of Culture decree.

Who knew?

The message has finally penetrated my remarkably thick skull: less, not more. So today I'm attempting to write a shorter post.

I make no promises.

Unfortunately, today's "shorter post" tackles one of the biggest misconceptions about modern Egyptian cultural history, so we'll see how this goes.

Not everything in Egyptian entertainment of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was produced for the benefit of European eyeballs and eardrums.

It irks me no end to see this myth perpetuated - not only on social media, where historical accuracy often goes to die, but occasionally in academic circles as well. Yes, even in the odd modern-day masters thesis.

Surely you know what I'm talking about.

And if you don't, get in touch. We'll discuss it over coffee and shisha.

Or a gin and tonic, depending on how much historical revisionism we're dealing with.

Contrary to a surprisingly persistent myth, Egyptians did not spend the colonial period sitting around waiting for Europeans to tell them what music to compose, what plays to stage, or how to dance. While the occupying powers certainly had money and influence, a closer look at the artistic and cultural developments of the era reveals something far more interesting: Egyptians were actively shaping their own national culture, on their own terms.

One of the clearest examples is music. If you ask ten people where modern Egyptian sha'abi came from, most will point to the 1970s and Ahmed Adaweya. They wouldn't be wrong - but they wouldn't be telling the whole story. 

As you may remember, last month's post explored the depth hidden beneath Ahmed Adaweya's catchy tune and vibrant vocals in Zahma Ya Dunya Zahma. The song is widely regarded as the moment when sha'abi music burst into the Egyptian mainstream and, with it, the dance style we recognize today.

To understand why sha'abi resonated with ordinary Egyptians, we have to go back half a century to a composer who believed that ordinary Egyptians deserved to hear themselves reflected in their own music. 

Enter Sayyed Darwish.

Often celebrated as the "father of modern Egyptian music," Darwish was far more than a composer. He was a musical revolutionary and a nationalist icon whose extraordinary work placed ordinary Egyptians - their struggles, their humor, their frustrations, and their dreams - at the center of the cultural conversation.

In other words, he did something rather radical: he made Egyptians listen to their own voices, language, experiences, and identities reflected back at them.

Darwish wasn't simply "bringing the working class into culture" as though they had no cultural presence before him. Egypt already had rich traditions of popular song, street performance, work chants, and professional entertainers. His innovation was elevating those sounds and experiences into a new national artistic language.

As music historian Nezar Mrouhe explains in Sayyed Darwish, Major Arab Music Pioneer, many Egyptian artists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were reacting against a cultural environment they viewed as increasingly disconnected from ordinary Egyptians. The arts of the period, he argues, often reflected the social and political realities of the time, with literature, theatre, and music shaped by elite tastes rather than popular experiences.

Mrouhe writes:

"The literature and arts of that period reflected the decadent social conditions. The prose was mainly rhymed and embellished statements arranged according to a pattern later deemed inferior. The same can be said about poetry and theater, which largely glorified feudalism and the rulers and defamed the Urabi revolution. Music was embedded with Turkish, foreign, or Eastern tunes alien to the popular Egyptian singing traditions. The music was loose: merely embellished rhythms, a form of tarab that lacked any expressionistic value."

Wow, that's quite a loaded description: "decadent," "inferior," "alien," and "lacking in expressionistic value." These words reflect a particular nationalist interpretation of the period rather than an objective assessment of all Egyptian art.

It also presents a very tempting - but ultimately misleading - storyline: old music bad, new music good.

Of course, history is rarely that tidy.

Before Darwish, the dominant language of "serious" literature and elite arts was often Classical Arabic (fusha) or highly stylized poetic language. Colloquial Egyptian Arabic (ʿammiyya / Masri) was frequently associated with everyday speech, humor, popular entertainment, and lower social classes. It existed everywhere - but many elites did not consider it appropriate for sophisticated artistic expression.

One of Darwish's most revolutionary choices was not musical at all - it was linguistic. He recognized that the language of ordinary Egyptians was not a barrier to serious art; it was the foundation of a truly Egyptian one.

He used expressions, rhythms, and phrases that sounded like real Egyptians talking. His songs reflected the vocabulary and humor of ordinary people rather than the formal language of courtly musical traditions. He demonstrated that the language Egyptians actually spoke in their homes, streets and coffee houses could carry patriotism, emotional depth, political commentary and artistic sophistication. 

Even before Darwish's era, Egyptian theatre was becoming increasingly interested in local characters, social satire, and recognizable Egyptian personalities. Colloquial Arabic allowed performers to create characters who sounded like actual Egyptians rather than literary figures.

Before we go any further, please allow me to introduce two more influencers - and I mean that in the original, pre-social media, non-discount-code sense of the word - who helped shape the early twentieth-century Egyptian entertainment scene. They didn't do it through music or dance, but through theatre and comedy: Najib al-Rihani and Ali al-Kassar.

Najib al-Rihani became famous for characters who represented ordinary Egyptians, particularly the working-class Cairene navigating the challenges of a rapidly changing society: bureaucracy, ambition, financial struggles, social expectations, and relationships. His comedy worked because audiences recognized themselves, their neighbours, and their everyday frustrations on stage.

Ali al-Kassar followed a similar path, building his popularity through characters drawn from recognizable Egyptian social types and the rhythms of everyday speech. His work also reflects the complicated realities of early twentieth-century entertainment; some of his portrayals, particularly through the lens of modern discussions of race and representation, are rightly questioned today. However, his success still demonstrates an important cultural shift: Egyptian audiences were drawn to performances rooted in local characters, local language, and familiar experiences rather than simply imitations of aristocratic or foreign models.

In other words, while Darwish was giving Egyptians a musical voice, Rihani and al-Kassar were putting Egyptian voices, personalities, and social realities on the stage. Different mediums, same cultural revolution. 

Speaking of which…

During the 1919 Revolution, Darwish's songs became deeply associated with nationalist sentiment. His famous patriotic works connected national identity with ordinary Egyptians rather than only politicians, intellectuals, or aristocrats. Egypt was not simply an idea discussed in government offices and literary salons; it was something experienced, sung, and performed by the people themselves.

And that idea did not disappear when Darwish's voice fell silent in 1923.

Decades later, the same cultural conversation continued in new forms. Modern sha'abi music did not appear out of nowhere in the 1970s with Ahmed Adaweya. Rather, it inherited a much older tradition: the belief that the everyday lives, language, humor, struggles, and celebrations of ordinary Egyptians were worthy subjects for art.

Adaweya brought the voices of the street into popular music with songs that spoke directly to working-class urban experiences. He did for his generation what Darwish had done half a century earlier: he made Egyptian popular expression impossible to ignore.

Nearly a century after Sayyed Darwish, another generation of Egyptians turned to music to express their frustrations, hopes, and demands for change. If Darwish's compositions became the soundtrack of the 1919 Revolution, mahraganat became one of the defining sounds associated with the 2011 Arab Spring. Emerging from Cairo's working-class neighborhoods, mahraganat gave voice to a younger generation navigating unemployment, inequality, political frustration, and the realities of everyday life.

The musical language had changed dramatically. The orchestras and patriotic anthems of Darwish's era had given way to electronic beats, auto-tuned vocals, and the sounds of the digital age. Yet the underlying impulse remained remarkably familiar: ordinary Egyptians using the tools available to them to tell their own stories.

Apparently, every generation of Egyptians has had the audacity to make music about themselves rather than waiting for approval from cultural gatekeepers. How terribly inconvenient for anyone trying to argue that Egyptian culture was simply imported, borrowed, or performed for someone else's benefit.

In conclusion, Dear Dorothy, I have one small request: please remember that extensive scholarship on nineteenth- and twentieth-century Egyptian entertainment exists. It is out there. Historians have, in fact, been busy.

If you are still using the word "commodification" as a shortcut for explaining Egyptian art and entertainment during the British colonial era - particularly the assumption that anything influenced by foreign audiences was therefore created primarily for foreign consumption - I invite you to take another look. History is, as usual, considerably messier and far more interesting.

Now for the fun part: homework! (Yay!)

The following books are excellent places to start, and many may be available through your public library. Auntie Helen's pro tip: Make friends with academics. Or graduate students. Or anyone with access to a university or college library. No need to spend a couple of hundred dollars buying every academic text just to discover that Auntie Helen has condensed the argument into a mere three pages.

Three pages.

I know. I surprised myself too.

Making Music in the Arab World: The Culture and Artistry of Tarab by A. J. Racy

"The Voice of Egypt": Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century (Volume 1997) by Virginia Danielson

Music and Media in the Arab World by Michael Frishkopf

Egyptian Belly Dance in Transition: The Raqs Sharqi Revolution, 1890-1930 by Heather D Ward

You didn't think I was going to spend an entire post talking about a legendary musician, composer, and singer and then leave you with nothing but a stack of books to read, did you?

Of course there's a playlist!

Here is a small selection of Sayyed Darwish's most famous works. A tiny musical doorway into the world of the man who helped change the sound of modern Egypt.

Enjoy!

Bilady, Bilady, Bilady (بلادي بلادي بلادي) - Inspired by a famous speech by nationalist leader Mustafa Kamel, Darwish composed this anthem during the 1919 Egyptian Revolution. It remains one of the most recognizable songs in the Arab world and was officially adopted as Egypt's national anthem in 1979.

Aho Da El Li Sar (أهو ده اللي صار) - Written as a subtle critique of British colonial occupation and domestic political turmoil. It remains an iconic anthem of Egyptian cultural pride and resilience.

El Helwa Di (الحلوة دي قامت تعجن في الفجرية) - Tells the story of a working-class family waking up at dawn to bake bread and head to work. Behind its gentle folk melody lies a message urging strength and hope through economic hardship.

Shed El Hizam (شد الحزام على وسطك) - Written for porter and luggage carriers. It encourages labo

rers to unite, stay proud, and persevere despite tough economic times.

Zourouni Kull Sana Marra (زوروني كل سنة مرة) - Meaning "Visit me once a year, even if just for a moment," this nostalgic song is one of Darwish’s most celebrated melodies. It was later popularized across the Arab world, particularly in the Levant, by Fairouz and mistakenly attributed to the Rahbani Brothers. 

Ana Haweit (أنا هويت وانتهيت) - Considered one of the pinnacles of the Egyptian Dawr (a complex vocal form). It shows Darwish’s dramatic capability as a singer and composer, exploring the heights of passionate longing and heartbreak. 

And there you have it: a short and to-the-point post that you can enjoy with your morning coffee.

Cue the diabolical laughter.

Yes, I know. "Short" is a relative term when Auntie Helen is involved. I will try harder next time.

Pinky swear.

For real.

Probably.

Have something to add? Want to discuss that masters thesis I mentioned? Get in touch. The coffee (or gin and tonic) is on you. askauntiehelen@gmail.com