Is it Folklore

Missed opportunities. 

We all have those moments we end up regretting, and it seems the longer we live, the longer that list quietly grows. Perfectly normal - hindsight has a way of sharpening everything into a chorus of “oh, if only I had…”

Well, dear Dorothy, let’s not get carried away with that particular brand of self-reflective nonsense. If an opportunity slips past while you’re looking the other way, you make another one. Or you carry on and don’t give it a second thought. Simple as that.

Now, this may seem like a rather long preamble for a post that leans a bit more serious - but stay with me. There is a reason.

A dance friend made a comment after our last student recital that left me… uneasy. She said, “It’s so nice to see belly dance schools teaching and performing folklore again! It fell out of fashion for a while. Thanks to your instructor for bringing it back!”

And instead of asking her what she meant - like a sensible person - I immediately started running through the set list in my head, trying to decode her meaning on the spot. Oh, what a spectacularly missed opportunity. Gold medal level, really.

Naturally, I followed my own advice and moved on.

Until later.

Another comment surfaced, this time about the costuming in one of the numbers: “It conveys a lovely folkloric touch. Well done!”

Now, both remarks were offered with genuine warmth - appreciation for us as a student group, and sincere admiration for the dance form itself. No malice, no misunderstanding in spirit.

And yet… I felt a faint wisp of smoke curling out of my ears.

Because - and here is the crux of it - none of the choreographies performed could accurately be labelled folkloric. (I will concede that raqs baladi exists on a folkloric spectrum, but given the pre-choreographed nature of that particular piece, it sits much closer to raqs sharqi in execution.)

So I found myself doing what any reasonable person does when mildly irritated and intellectually intrigued: sitting down to examine the why of it all.

Why did those comments arise? What signals were we giving, intentionally or not?

Come, sit with me. Let’s see if we can untangle this together.

First, here’s the lineup of styles that took the stage that day, in order of appearance: an homage to the pre-raqs sharqi awalem tradition, inspired by professional entertainers of the late 19th to early 20th centuries, opening with a shamadan zeffa; a raqs baladi piece set to music that confidently struts the line between baladi and pop; a choreography inspired by the Golden Era of Egyptian cinema and belly dance; a lively sha’abi number danced to - what else - sha’abi music; and finally, a large group piece featuring the melaya leff.

Now then. At first glance - does anything in that list strike you as folkloric?

Go on, take a second.

No rush.

…Exactly.

Buckle your seatbelt, Dorothy. We are about to dive headfirst into a rather short yet delightful rabbit hole of fuzzy definitions.

According to the beloved matriarch of belly dance research, Morocco (a.k.a. C. Varga Dinicu), 

“A folk or ethnic dance is one that arises naturally from a group of people; a whole country, a city, a village, an extended family within a city or a village. It evolves by itself, becomes popular, and is done over an extended period of time, so it becomes identified with that region or those people.”  (Dinicu, 2011).

Let’s pause there for a moment.

“Arises naturally.” Not choreographed for a stage, not assembled in a studio, not curated for an audience.

“Evolves by itself.” Which means no single creator, no premiere date, no neat little origin story you can point to and say, there, that’s when it began.

“Over an extended period of time.” Not last season. Not a few years. We are talking generations.

“And becomes identified with a people.” Not just performed by them - but recognised as theirs.

Now, keep that definition tucked neatly in your pocket - we’re going to need it.

Here’s a nuance that trips up a lot of dancers. According to C. Varga Dinicu (a.k.a. Morocco):

“If a dance was made up for a specific performance or occasion and was done for a long enough time across several generations it became traditional, rather than folk. The candelabrum dance/Raqs al Shemadan is a perfect example,(...) The audiences liked those dances, so other performers did them and it became something expected in a bridal zeffa—traditional. If many ordinary people had done it for many generations and it became part of their communal identity, no longer done just by hired performers, then it would be folk. Those are the differences” (Dinicu, 2011).

For the sake of simplicity, Dorothy, we shall begin in reverse order of appearance. Our first contender for the elusive title of “folklore” on the list is Melaya Leff - or, as the venerable Farida Fahmy charmingly insists, “dance with the melaya.”

This one is easy. Totally made up. Neither folkloric nor traditional. The history of this beautiful theatrical dance is fascinating, but it’s performance art, not living culture. You can read the story of its creation here. 

Next up is the sha’abi piece. Now, the word “sha’abi” literally means “of the people” or “popular.” In our context, it refers to music and dance that reflect everyday urban Egyptian life - its humour, its struggles, its flirtations, and even some snarky social commentary. Sounds like a strong contender for the folklore crown, doesn’t it?

Well… not really. Sha’abi music is undeniably an urban folk style, but it covers such vast and varied social groups that the only truly safe thing to say about it is: “disliked by pearl-clutching people and government officials.” Charming, yes, but hardly universal.

And let’s not forget: sha’abi is a relatively recent addition to Egyptian musical traditions, having emerged from working-class neighbourhoods of Cairo in the 1970s and 1980s. That’s barely a blink in the long arc of communal folklore.

All of this combined means that, while sha’abi carries attitude, life, and energy, it’s hardly the performance that makes you go: “Oh wow! That is folklore!”

Ah, the Golden Era number - hardly needs an explanation for why it isn’t folklore. But let’s indulge a quick, shiny little introduction to what Golden Era belly dance usually looks like.

When Egyptian cinema exploded in the mid-20th century, dancers became film stars. Iconic performers like Samia Gamal and Tahia Carioca brought the dance to audiences across the MENAHT world, dazzling screens and theatre-goers alike.

Golden Era belly dance dripped with grand theatricality. Dancers performed on large stages and film sets, each movement choreographed for maximum visual impact. These were no casual performers - specialized professional dancers trained for both camera and stage, bringing precision and flair to every shimmy and turn. The music matched the spectacle: large orchestras playing fully composed pieces, designed to elevate the performance and complement every dramatic flourish. In short, it was cinematic, polished, and spectacular - entertaining, but a far cry from communal folklore.

Now we’re venturing into a far more complex and fuzzy territory than the previous three. Baladi literally means “of the land” or “of the people of this land” - as opposed to some foreign, “other” land. Raqs baladi is, in essence, the very foundation of what we now call raqs sharqi: a communal social dance, enjoyed by all sexes and ages at weddings, celebrations, and everyday gatherings.

In its purest form, baladi is folklore. But take it onto a stage, performed by a hired dancer, and it shifts into the realm of traditional performance. Both versions are beautiful, but they occupy very different cultural spaces.

Raqs baladi and its signature improvisational form - the taqseem baladi progression - deserve an entire post dedicated to their richness. It is considered the soul of Egyptian dance, expressing everyday life, emotion, and connection rather than theatrical spectacle.

For now, a few key notes: the rise of baladi correlates strongly with the migration of rural folk to urban centers like Cairo, bringing their favourite moves, music, and communal joy with them. And a quick nod back to the mischievous cousin: sha’abi. Rebellious, urban, cheeky, and connected to the roots yet reflecting different socioeconomic realities, sha’abi is the spirited offspring of baladi - related, but distinctly its own.

And now, Dorothy, we arrive at the pre-raqs sharqi awalem homage, opening with the shamadan zeffa - arguably the trickiest piece to place on our folklore scale. 

Do I think this piece counts as folklore? Nope. But, at the same time, I can see why it might confuse dancers who aren’t inclined to study belly dance history past the age of Badia Masabni’s Casino Opera.

A lot went into creating this stage number: historical research, finger cymbal patterns, movement vocabulary studies, costuming plans, and, of course, accessories. It was a team effort every participant should feel proud of. And yes, I know I shouldn’t “should” people, but I can’t even, so deal with it. Vanity moment over, let’s dissect!

First of all, who were the awalem? You can read more in my previous post, but in short: they were professional entertainers. The key word here is professional, as in for hire. That alone instantly disqualifies this choreography from being anything folk.

Traditional? Well… kind of. The whole “homage” angle matters: this production was created for a modern belly dance student recital, not a historical folk fair. Nobody dared call it an “authentic recreation.” I would label it as a 21st-century interpretation of 19th-century awalem performances.

Whether it opened with a shamadan zeffa or not doesn’t change a thing: raqs el shamadan is traditional, not folkloric. Nothing about this nearly seven-minute performance - floorwork with shamadans, extensive blocking, numerous cymbal pattern changes, and yes, hot pink costumes - represented a single people or region, nor could it be identified as such.

It was pure spectacle. And maybe, just maybe, the beautiful dancers from over a century ago would look down, chuckle, and think: “There, there, children. You have much to learn, but you are on the right path!”

So, Dorothy, what have we learned on this little journey through our recital lineup? First: not everything that looks old, exotic, or “folk-inspired” actually qualifies as folklore.

And that is why we can smile at the audience comments, nod politely, and keep learning. Because whether folklore or traditional, staged or improvised, the joy, the history, and the artistry are still very much alive. 

And yet… every hip twist, every darbuka beat, and every rababa note is a thread in the grand, colorful tapestry of Egyptian dance. The saddest missed opportunity of all? Not participating.

Have you studied any MENAT folklore dances? How different were they from raqs sharqi? Get in touch and let me know: askauntiehelen@gmail.com

Check out some of the many photos taken at Shimmy Showcase: a Stamp in Time below:

2026_03_14_ShimmyShowcase - Google Drive