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Do you Flex or Point ?
- Nicole (Nico)
- Jul 29
- 9 min read
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.’
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.
Follow on Instagram.
Follow on Instagram.
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Follow on Instagram.
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Follow on Instagram.
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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.
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!
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