Belly dancing slowly sheds its centuries-long stigma

When the investigator (Omar Elhariri) confronts Sarhan about finding his handkerchief in the dead woman's apartment, Sarhan retorts: "You see, Hussein, Enayat turned out to be not only a dancer, but also a thief." Placing the two labels side-by-side seemed to imply some sort of correlation, or at the very least, a negative association.

During the interrogation, the following dialogue unfolds:

• What was her precise occupation?
• She worked as a dancer.
• At the hospital?
• At a cabaret.
• You mean she was vulgar!

Due to her career as a dancer, she was "constantly busy, in and out, out and in, day and night, night and day" and she's used to "hosting at home in the evenings".

The play fails to present the story of the dancer as a social condition affected by different interactions with people of different values. Instead, it depicts it as a symbol of societal and moral decline.

On the screen

The 1984 movie 'El-Raqesah wa el-Tabbal' (The Dancer and the Drummer), directed by Ashraf Fahmy, portrays dance as an art form that is often looked down upon in comparison to drumming, which is a revered part of music.

Throughout the narrative, dance's reputation – and a dancer's status – is only elevated when it synchronises with the rhythm of the drum.

Abdo, the cultured drummer (played by Ahmed Zaki), tells dancer Mabaheg (played by Nabila Ebeid) that he wants to help her "become a dancer people admire, lifting you from the path you're on. Let's put an end to those gigs that mess with your head and lower your worth."

His words echo a deep-rooted cultural perception, which stigmatises community parties and cabaret dancers as lacking respectability and holding tarnished reputations. However, this overlooks the distinction between those who engage in dance as a respectful art form on stage and those who are exploited in a no-holds-barred market.

At the end of the movie, the dancer emerges triumphant over the drummer. Yet, her triumph isn't down to her performing within a genre that holds historical significance and artistic merit. Instead, it sadly mirrors the negative association of dance with decay, triviality, and a broader societal collapse.

Perhaps the 1990 movie 'El-Raqesah wa el-Seyasi' (The Dancer and the Politician), directed by Samir Seif and featuring Nabila Ebeid and Salah Qabil, more skillfully portrays the intricate reality of a dancer's life in a society touched by decay. In this setting, art, as exemplified by dance, becomes intertwined with the ugly side of politics.

Here, the politicians, who are closely associated with the belly dancer, attempt to mask her identity and stand in the way of her dream, which is to establish an orphanage. Only when she threatens to expose her scandalous memoirs, detailing her myriad relationships, do they relent and fulfil her request.

A number of movies, theatrical productions, and literary works have portrayed the dancer crudely or as a cautionary tale.

Among the most renowned examples are movies directed by Hassan El-Imam, including 'Shafiqa al-Qibtiyya' (Shafiqa the Copt) (1963), 'Khalli Balak Min Zouzou' (Watch Out for Zouzou) (1972), and 'Layal' (1982).

Similarly, Husain Fawzi's movies, 'Uhibu Alghalat' (I Love Wrongdoing) (1942), 'Baladay Wakhifa' (Local and Sweet) (1950), and 'Janah wa Nar' (Heaven and Hell) (1952), serve as key examples.

The list continues. Niazi Mostafa's 'Sharea Mohamed Ali' (Mohamed Ali Street) (1944), Wali El Dine Sameh's 'Laabet el Sitt' (1946), Helmy Rafla's 'Gharam Raqesa' (A Dancer's Infatuation) (1950), Ezz El-Dine Zulficar's 'El Rajul El Thani' (The Second Man) (1959), Atef Salem's 'Ehna Al-Tlamzaa' (We're the Students) (1959), Tarek Alarian's 'El Imbarator' (The Emperor) (1990), Said Marzouk's 'Aldukturat Manal Tarqus' (Dr. Manal is Dancing) (1991), Mahmoud Hanafy's 'Alraqesa wal Shaitan' (The Dancer and the Devil) (1992), alongside many others.

Apart from select scenes that display the dancers' humanity, or her human nature, with more nuance, these films predominantly depict dancers as playful women who offer their bodies to the highest bidder, suggesting opportunism, addiction, and a sense of overarching frivolity.

They are regarded as suspicious at best, as though they are covering up hidden corners of their lives.

Real-life dancers

What's striking is that there are real-life dancers don't shy away from expressing disdain for their own profession.

Take Fifi Abdou, for example. According to an article by Ahmed Abdel-Latif, she's credited with shifting dance from its "exclusive" sphere to a more popular public domain.

Recently, she referred to popular singer Mohammed Abdu as a "dancer" after disagreeing with his opinion about another singer, Sherine.

It transpired on Instagram, when she shared a story suggesting that if Sherine is indeed "a performer and not a singer", as Abdu had stated, then Abdu himself is "a dancer".

This sparked outrage among fans of Abdu, considered the 'artist of the Arabs', and led to Fifi's subsequent apology. She expressed her admiration for Abdu and explained that she "shared the TikTok video without reading the words that were written," though it is unclear what words she was referring to.

When delving into the biographies of other notable dancers, we find several accomplished female artists who have not only perfected the art form but also upheld its high standards alongside their own reputations.

Take, for example, Badia Masabni from Syria, who established a belly dance troupe in Cairo back in 1926. She shunned the practice of appearing semi-naked on stage, a pivotal departure from genre conventions, and redefined the essence of the art form.

Her approach was embraced and adopted by her two pupils, Samia Gamal and Tahheya Kariokka.

Kariokka, known for her strong political convictions and principled commitment to the left, did not perceive her body as something to be objectified or commodified. Her performances didn't rely on donning revealing outfits for the benefit of paying audiences.

Her convictions led her to marry 17 different men; her rationale, as interpreted by her niece, actress Ragaa Al Geddawy, was grounded in a refusal to engage in any relationship that wasn't sanctified by marriage. A similar sentiment can be seen in the case of Nagwa Fouad, who married 12 times.

Kariokka, who attracted numerous intellectuals and politicians, travelled to Mecca for Hajj in her final days. Remarkably, she embraced this spiritual journey without belittling her profession or renouncing her history.

Ultimately, it's clear that the disdain held toward dance and dancers didn't emerge recently. Rather, it goes back centuries.

Dance, once an integral aspect of ritualistic worship in ancient myths, transitioned into a form of exuberant performance for entertainment. Perhaps the image of slave girls and singers from the Abbasid era continues to hold a place in the Arab mindset, even today.

It's common today to see dancers constrained by societal norms, much like poets. The same poets monetise their verses and yet resent dancers or singers for earning more than all of them collectively.