The Existentialist Dancer

Personal musings on the meaning of life, dancing abroad, and generally questioning the purpose of the universe

[theexistentialistdancer]

Upcoming Cairo Course!

I am so excited to be involved in the 2022 Bellydance on Location in November! Farah Nasri (that's right, that Farah Nasri) has been working on this course since before covid, and after years of delays, we are finally doing it!

Early 2020, before the pandemic, Farah approached me to assist her in this project, and I was nervous to be involved. Let's be honest and address the elephant in the room: I am not naive to the constant chattering about me and my unfortunate associations, and I was afraid it would impact her project. However, Farah being the genuine person that she is, said she does not care about gossip or rumors and wants to partner with dancers who have lived in the real, gritty side of Egypt. I think we all know that horse poop and gritty was my life for a long time, so I agreed to give it a try.

We came up with a plan together, and from there have experienced a ton of delays, created 3youni, did This is Egypt online, and have many more ideas.

Through it all, I have been so amazed to see how she takes every delay and turns it into another chance to develop further, and now Bellydance on Location will finally run in November!

You will not want to miss this course. It covers culture, history, socioeconomics, and everything else you can imagine, and Farah has recruited a dynamic team of teachers to present it all. We will even be doing video clips, and you will walk away with a holistic knowledge of Egyptian dance. Sign up at www.farahnasridancelabs.com!

PS: in regards to said elephant, I have cleaned house and am now independent in Cairo. More on that later. In the meantime, come to Egypt and hang out with us!

[theexistentialistdancer]

A Baladi “Wedding”

We approached the turnoff for the event. It was a dirt road off the highway, with no signs other than a string of flashing purple string lights showing the way into an unfinished compound. There was gate for the area as if it was a secure compound, but the security detail sat drinking tea and nonchalantly motioned for us to enter and follow the dozens of cars entering and parking anywhere there was space. The parking “assistants” were rushed to help, making tip money for every car that parked in the stretch of street they had claimed as their own. We tried to find a spot that didn’t include the compulsory tips, but failed and gave up.

Our group approached the event, which was across the street from the area mosque and was surrounded by a high concrete wall and had sounds of the live musicians and the emcee on the microphone pulsing out and into the gravel street. We were a group made up of four Egyptian men and myself, the lone female “guest” at the event. It is against social norms for respectable women to attend these events; the only women inside would be the vendors selling snacks and packs of tissues and the hired dancers who would work on stage. As we entered, we were greeted by men working as ushers, who immediately asked if we were German (meaning they were guessing at us being tourists). “la3 la3 masry,” my group responded. We walked down a long red carpet inside the courtyard that had white floral archways every 2 meters. On the left was a tea and coffee stand with some small catering options, and straight ahead was the main party: a huge structure covered in hanging fake flowers, teeming with male guests, workers serving them, and at one end, the stage with singers, a large band, and one lone female dancer sitting bored on a chair smoking cigarettes. She was wearing a red belted coat over shorts and was playing on her phone in between smoking. Stage lights flashed and the event was filled with men wearing galabeyas sitting and drinking tea.

The event workers rushed to bring us a table; rather than seat us at one that was already set up, they brought an entire table into the party, complete with a tablecloth. We were ushered to our seats and along came the parade of “services:” foam plates of fresh fruit, bags of chips, wax paper containing various substances, a shisha guy, tissue packs, children offering sunflower seeds, sodas, and a man who was a professional “cigarette” roller. Each person walked by and put their wares on the table, and for the things that were from the event, we could take whatever we wanted for free (with the expectation that we would contribute). The children selling sunflower seeds dropped them on the table and if you said no, they grabbed them back up just as quickly.

 I settled in to survey the chaos.This was like a cabaret but with less rules, and more forward about money. The cabaret is all about getting you to spend money for fun, but this event, although it is normally called a “wedding,” is actually a gama3a (gamaya), or a type of community fundraiser. There is no marriage or groom, and the sole purpose is to crowdfund money.

 There is more than one kind of gama3a, but at its simplest, it is a community saving program. You can go into normal gama3as where each person commits to paying in 1000le every month, and every month someone takes the whole amount. Each person in the gama3a has a number and the length of time of the gama3a determines how much money will be in the amount you take. It may seem like you could just take the money and run, but these are community-led and a bit like a mafia, so you can’t just back out after taking your money. The more trusted you are in the community, the sooner you will take your money.

 In a “wedding” type gama3a, things are a little bit different. The way it works is that each person who is part of it has a day for their event. On that day, they are the host and they will take all the money that is thrown and they have the emcee who records everything and also pushes the next events. The emcee will take his own personal payment for the service and has a book that has every single name and amount given, plus they typically record the entire event on cameras as well so if there is any mistake, they can double check it.

 So, say that imaginary Ahmed has his event today. At the event, Mohammed throws 500le. When it comes time for Mohammed’s event, Ahmed can come and give him the 500le back, and now they are even. Ahmed can also give him more than 500le, and then when it’s Ahmed’s event again, Mohammed will have to either give him back the equal amount to be even, or he could give more. You can also join a bunch of gama3a circuits. Each area has their own groups, but you can cross-join different ones and the emcee will notify whoever has given money or owes money to attend the correct event. The emcee/organizer is really impressive here, I am amazed at their ability to keep everything straight. 

If Mohammed has his event and Ahmed (who owes 500le) doesn’t go to it, then the emcee will arrange someone to go to Ahmed’s house and take the money back in person. There’s no getting out of paying in this type of situation. 

As outside guests of this event, we had a few options. We could not offer any money (thus staying outside the gama3a AND being rude), or we could give money “by love,” meaning that we don’t need it back later, or we could give money to enter the circuit. One of the men in our group, who works as a singer at some of these events, gave some money “by love” so that way we are not just free-loaders but also aren’t entering into the event circuit. To enter, you see how much money you have given at other events, then you talk to the emcee and they will give you a date for your own event when you can take it back. If you don’t want to attend enough to have your own event, you can ask the emcee to get your money back at a later date on its own. In essence, a gama3a event is way to have a fun time and also save money in a way that you don’t “feel” it. It’s easy to spend 100le on entertainment but if many of the people don’t put it into a gama3a of some kind, then they find that they will spend that 100le on something else, so this way it actually saves them the money for the future rather than just being spent. The party adds to the appeal, with live singers and musicians covering classic and current shaabi songs for the guests who love live music. The dancers that are there are separately booked and also add encouragement for the men to attend, as they are otherwise not normally able to see women who are scantily-clad up close in public. 

As I sat at this event, listening to the emcee promote the next event (March 6, March 6, March 6 he rattled off over and over) while the band played pieces of shaabi improvisation music to accent the words and add to the enthusiasm, a video camera came by and panned over our table. As the only female and a foreigner, I quickly checked my mask was in place - better to be incognito and a nameless observer at at event like this. More dancers arrived, joining the one sitting nonchalantly on stage, all pulling each other up to the stair-less stage while laughing. They ranged in makeup style and dress, but most had on the similar jackets with shorts. One climbed on stage and after finding her chair, expertly took off her sweatpants to reveal a mini dress. It was cold so they huddled together, waiting for the emcee to finish his promotional part and start the party.

A woman wearing hijab and selling tissues climbed awkwardly up on stage and offered the dancers tissues. The main dancer joked with her, gesturing to all the dancers and then biting her thumb at the tissue vendor before breaking into a belly laugh. The tissue vendor sat on a dancer’s lap and joined their jokes before moving on to the next potential customers.

I asked my group if the emcee would be long with his announcements because I wanted to see the flow of the event, however the emcee was long-winded and our table abruptly decided we shouldn’t overstay our welcome; the longer we sat, the harder it would be socially to leave without giving more money “by love.” As group we all got up and quickly walked out, back through the flower arches and down the long red carpet and back to our car, to give the parking man 5le for his assistance. We drove away from the road lined with flashing purple lights and back out to the highway, as if we had never been at the event at all.

[theexistentialistdancer]

A Eulogy for Roxie

I remember when I first saw Roxie as a puppy, outside the gates of the Mena House golf course. I thought she was a boy dog since she didn’t have anything distinctively girly about her. Her nose was long and narrow, and she was born with no tail and was very small. I couldn’t catch her and so I tried to remember I can’t save every dog. She disappeared for awhile and then when I brought the floof to the shop, she resurfaced and I discovered she was a girl and she was super smart and friendly. She would play with the floof and they had a blast together, and I kinda tried to keep my distance because at that point I already had collected the floof to re-home and I was overwhelmed at having two dogs. As a dog-lover, this is the hardest thing in the world to do, since my instinct is to save all the dogs I see on the streets, but I have serious limitations. I didn’t have the space or the funds or the living environment to have a dog, and that is why the floof was up for adoption. She was older than the floof and was scrappy and a bit of a short stack - definitely fun sized. She never did get very large, but was stocky and developed an elegant beauty about her. Even as a puppy, she had a mind of her own. I would tether the floof to a chain outside the shop, and Roxie was so smart. She knew how to lift the end of the leash off the anchor and free the floof to play with him, and when they would play together on the golf course, she would try to take his leash off of him. She acted like he needed to be freed because he had a harness on, and she LOVED to be independent and run. I nicknamed her “the floof’s girlfriend” and felt so sad I couldn’t take both of them home with me every day. I prayed her sassy attitude and street smarts would keep her safe, since a puppy surviving past nursing is impressive in the pyramids area. 

After the floof left (he was adopted in Boston and is now named Malik), I still hung out with Roxie, who did not have a name yet. I was hesitant to name her because my heart had been so broken by all the other dogs that I had tried to save and failed, but she was street-wise, sweet, and quickly became my shop buddy. I fed her every day and looked for her, but she truly became mine when she had an emergency. Her back left foot had been run over by a car and her bones and muscles were exposed. I found out that it had been like that for about 12 hours. I scooped her up with Kokee and took her to the vet, and she was an absolute dream in the car. She acted like she had been preparing for that moment her whole life, as she had seen the floof leave in the car many times. She looked out the window and made herself right at home. She took many car rides after that, and she was the queen: always looking out the window and challenging the dogs we passed as if to tell them she had arrived.

 We got to the vet and bandaged and cleaned her foot; it was not as bad as it seemed. Her toenail never did grow right again, but she eventually regained almost total use of her foot. She sat at the vet and let him work on her injury like she couldn’t even be bothered to look at it. That was her personality exactly; whenever something uncomfortable happened, she was perfectly aloof until it passed. She was the perfect family dog: tolerant, patient, smart, and independent. We had to change her bandages every 24 hours and clean and put glycerin on her wound. I know it hurt her a lot, but she was so quiet and calm and let us help her every day.

 While at the vet, we discovered she needed to be spayed as soon as possible as she was older than I thought, so we scheduled her surgery. She was super happy staying in boarding, since she got to eat lots of fancy food. The vet laughed at this shaabi baladi dog staying in the same kennels as fancy breeds, but by that time I was already known as the crazy foreigner who brought baladi dogs to get help. We got her all her injections and she had a fancy “pet passport” issued to her. Not long after she was finished with her surgery, Velma arrived.

Velma was a tiny puppy with floppy ears, lanky legs, and velvety fur, and like Roxie, she had no mother to be found. She latched onto Roxie immediately, Roxie was the street-wise, gang boss to Velma’s mushiness, and they perfectly balanced each other. I declared them sisters and finally gave them their official names: Roxie, after Roxie Hart in Chicago (a name that had just stuck with me for her from the beginning), and Velma as her sidekick.

 And so there we were, at our shop by the pyramids: me, Roxie, and Velma. All day, I sat with my dog family and played with them, laughed while they sneaked into the shop to nap, fed them chicken, and trained them to sit. I scratched their ears and sat on the ground with them against all the norms of Egypt, and we had beautiful days. I laughed at how they would steal sandwiches from the cafe next to the shop, and could push the door open to sleep in the air conditioning. Velma loved water so she would go find a nasty puddle to splash around in, and she showed Roxie how to do the same. Velma sat like a baby seal and had to be touching Roxie at all times, and Roxie grumbled in return but tolerated tiny Velma’s love. Roxie was not an overly affectionate dog, but she was loving when she wanted to be. She would give nibbles with her front teeth and liked to sleep up against your back, or with her head pressed up against your leg. I wanted to take them home with me, but I live in a shared house with people who do not like dogs inside and the shop always had people to look out for them, so I had to believe they were as safe as could be arranged in my situation. They were like farm dogs: independent and self-sufficient, and intent on going and visiting anyone they wanted. Roxie had a air of royalty about her, and I declared her the queen of the Haram Street Hooligans, an original gangster. But then one day, animal control came through the area and tried to collect dogs. Roxie hid, but Velma was scooped up until Mimo, Kokee’s dad, saved her. After that, we put them up on the shop roof at night to keep them safe when there was no one around.  

 Thus began the battle of the roof versus street for my two dogs. For Roxie and Velma to stay on the roof, they needed daily water and food, which was sometimes difficult with timing. But they were not allowed to come to my house, so the roof would have to be the best solution. I went every day and made sure they had fresh water and food. People would also let them down to the street during the day, but wouldn’t put them up again at night, not understanding what the big deal was for me to keep them safe. Once, the upstairs door wasn’t secured and they came down to the shop and chewed up some papyrus before taking a nap. Sometimes I had shows so I wouldn’t be back by the shop until late, and then I would discover they had not been put up. I tried to find a home for them, but because they are considered “common” dogs, I was unsuccessful because baladi dogs are everywhere in Giza, and I did not want to split them up. I was their caretaker, the end. With regular poisonings and morning dog sweeps by animal control and the medical research teams, I was beyond paranoid, but I tried to find a balance with what was within my control. The roof wasn’t perfect either; Roxie had decided to climb ALLLL the way to the top and make it her lookout. 

Then two things happened at once:

The roof of the shop was taken by another company, and the pandemic happened. I started fighting to bring both Roxie and Velma home; I was not going to tolerate them being out in the street 24/7. Roxie was smart though, and she snuck into the shops and napped on the couch, staying the night inside. Everyone told me that they were street-savvy and knew their way around, and I should not be so worried. It was not good enough for me, and finally I succeeded in bringing both of my dogs to my house. We anchored a metal hook into the ground for long tethers, and watched them carefully to see where they would go on their own. Our street has a few large households and there were constantly people outside looking after them, including the owners of the same neighboring shops from their original area. After one month, it was clear that they refused to be tethered and would stay on our quiet street, venturing out onto the main road only if someone was with them. We also have a large speed bump on the main street as well, so I was relatively confident that they were safe from cars. Roxie and Velma were, after all, street dogs, and they knew their way around the roads from being free in the pyramids area. 

For a month, everything was perfect. I made them delicious food every day of chicken and rice and eggs, and at first I put potatoes and carrots until I saw that they picked them out and left them in a pile. I cooked their rice with chicken broth that I snuck from the regular food for extra flavor, and was happy that I got to give them yummy things to eat. Roxie buried her food in an old blanket she “borrowed” from who-knows-where, and then panicked when she saw me shake it out and chicken pieces went flying. We decorated our house for Ramadan, and Roxie was perplexed at the speaker. They “helped” hang the streamers and investigated new visitors. They napped in a sand pile at the neighbor’s houses, and stole flip-flops and pranced around like they were the winners. I found a pair of ram horns they had collected and brought home to me. They said hi to the new foal on our street and played with the children. I put their fancy collars from the USA on them, purple for Roxie and pink for Velma (I later had to take them off because some people were planning to steal the collars). It was joyful and I felt like I had finally succeeded in saving them, finally making my house feel like home. I was wrong.

On April 21, 2020, tragedy struck. At 3AM, I argued with Kokee and went downstairs to visit my dogs. Roxie snuggled me, and gave me sweet love nibbles which had a way of bruising afterwards. I laughed that her paws smelled like corn chips, and I searched her body for stray ticks. She had none, as usual - Roxie was very clean somehow. I stroked her short, stiff hair and kissed her long nose, and rubbed her belly, which was dark-colored because under her hair, she had black skin. Her pointed, too-big ears were my favorite to play with, and I scratched them as she rolled off the steps. I pulled her back up, and she flopped right off again. Around 3:30AM, I went back upstairs and went to sleep, comforted by her silly scrappy way of loving. Velma was nearby, but for once she was too interested in sleeping to bother to snuggle me, so I got all of Roxie’s sweetness.

At 8:30AM, I took our Airbnb guest to 6 October to shop. I felt emotional, but I thought it was due to not sleeping well. The car was parked in the back so I looked down the front street to see the dogs on the way out and saw Velma. I assumed Roxie was next to her and just blended into the sand, as she had dug out a nice little crevice to sleep inside. We went to the store and came back around 11. I parked the car and showed my guest the stolen ram horns. I didn’t see either dog (later my memory would trick me about this), but they normally slept behind the house in the shade during the middle of the day so I carried my groceries upstairs and didn’t worry. I knew they were not out on the main street because I would have seen them on my way back.

A few hours later, I went up onto the roof with Mimo. I looked over the side of the roof and again saw Velma. Roxie was no where to be seen but she was so independent that this was not unusual. I went downstairs to clean the kitchen and help with dinner, and Kokee called saying he had food to give the dogs for dinner. Great, I said, but he took a long time to come back. I was heading downstairs to feed the dogs anything I could pull together since Kokee was late, but then he stopped me on the way and said he had something to tell me. Roxie had been hit by a microbus and killed, and it had happened at 6/7AM that morning, not long before I had left to take my client to the store. The supermarket had seen it happen, but they didn’t bother to tell anyone until Kokee had returned. The Egyptian Animal Control had taken her body to somewhere undisclosed (we have yet to find out where they take animals), and the supermarket guy said Velma had sat with Roxie for awhile after she had died, and then came home on her own.

I screamed in anguish. My sweet, mafia-boss Roxie, had been killed and no one told me?! Everyone knew she was my dog. How could she have been killed by a microbus, when they are so slow? I even tried to run away from Kokee in a microbus once in the midst of a silly fight, and later laughed that I took the slowest vehicle in all of Egypt. Donkey carts move faster than a microbus. We have a speed bump. How could no one tell me what happened??? How could I have truly not noticed she wasn’t around for a full day? How was no one on my entire street aware?? We have two uncles, numerous cousins, many friends, and in our own house, eight people. Not a single person was told? There were cameras outside all the stores, but no one was able to produce footage of what happened. She was hit right outside our street, not even in the actual street. I demanded we find her body, and so we went around the normal areas that animals that die are placed for pickup in Nazlet El Semman and searched all the dumpsters to find nothing. Kokee called every contact he had to try to find out where the city takes animals that have been hit by cars, and no one could tell him. Although Velma had been able to say goodbye, I was beyond devastated that I would not be able to bury her, stroke her fur one last time, or apologize for not doing better to save her. I had tried my best, and yet I still failed; she was only 1.5 years old. I had dreamed of when I would have my own place and be able to bring her and Velma inside, to live happy, comfortable couch-napping lives. I thought for sure I had at least a few more years, and I had thought about how I would send them both to the USA to stay with my mom. Roxie’s foot had been healed for 9 months, and it was almost completely normal aside from the occasional toenail flareup.

The other question that was immediate was how Velma would survive without her big sister? Velma relied on Roxie for everything. Roxie took care of her, showed her how to be a street dog, and taught her the mafia life. Without Roxie, Velma turned into a puddle of mush, and they were bonded. Whenever I would be at the shop and I didn’t see one of them, I could ask the one I did see to find her sister. Once, Velma ate half her food, then went and found Roxie and brought her back to share with her. All I had to say was, “where’s Roxie?,” or “where’s Velma?” and the other would find their sister.

The first night without Roxie, we put Velma on my balcony. I had tried to put them both there before, but it had turned into a huge fight. Roxie was very vocal, and she refused to be told what to do. She wanted to either be RIGHT NEXT TO ME or completely free. People complained about her barking. However, with this tragedy, the fight was over - there was no way in hell I was going to leave Velma alone. I had to carry her up two flights of stairs, and I brought her blanket that she stole and her ram horns with her.

The next night, Velma decided to look for Roxie. She sat at the end of my street and watched for her sister, wagging her tail every few seconds in anticipation. Velma is a full-body dog, and every emotion radiates throughout her being. If she is looking for someone, you know it. She laid down and waited, then asked me to go with her outside to the main street by grabbing me with her paw and walking out. We went out to the scene of Roxie’s death, and Velma sat there, looking around, and then sighed and went back home. My heart shattered into even smaller pieces, and I cried more tears than I thought was possible.

The entire house mourned her, although some more than others. We called Zayn, one of our regular shop workers, and told him and he was very upset. Zayn is a very kind, religious man from Upper Egypt, but despite being religious, he loved both dogs and regularly played with them. Unlike many religious people, he had no qualms about petting dogs. Kokee’s mom cried, and his dad was also sad. Roxie was our mascot at the shop, and Mimo knew I loved her deeply. Of course, Kokee was equally as heartbroken as me, as she was just as much his dog as she was mine. He cared for her constantly, gave her food, changed her foot dressings alongside me, took her to the vet while I was traveling, and laughed at her antics. She was a strong part of our family.

Kokee dedicated two Ramadan food bags to Roxie, which is a Muslim way to offer extra help for her soul to go to heaven. All dogs go to heaven, but maybe the food bags earned her the place of mal3ma in heaven too. She was the true queen of Haram Street.

I keep thinking I will see her saunter up my street, coming home. Her ghost haunts me, even though just hours before she died, I gave her so much love and belly scratches. I wish I would have stayed longer and kissed her nose one more time, and scratched her wiry, short hair and booped her ears. I didn’t get to bury her, but at the same time, I know she was buried with other street dogs, so they have each other for comfort. I just wanted a little more time with her before she left me…

I’m grateful I know exactly what happened to Roxie, and that she didn’t just disappear without any record. I’m grateful for the love nibbles she gave me, the snuggles, the comfort, and the laughs. She was silly in the most baladi way possible, with the funniest humor. She definitely gave me some fleas, and she entertained me with chasing moths, sneaking into the shop, and she had a way of communicating that was so clever. She always made it clear what she needed. I’m grateful for all the times I saw her nubbin of a tail wag when I said “I love you Roxie,” and all the side-eye she gave me when I woke her up from a nap. She was the perfect companion, and was so patient and tolerant of everything. and I’m unbelievably grateful that I had the honor to know such a wonderful dog and to borrow her from heaven for awhile. One day, we will nap together on the couch again, and I’ll squish her face and look at her beautiful eyes and kiss her on the nose, and never let her go again.

Rest in peace, ya Roxie. I hope you found other friends from the pyramids over the Rainbow Bridge, and you are all laying in a beautiful pile of soft sand in the sunshine. You are missed every single day by your Earth family, and you were the best dog anyone could possibly hope for. 

In Roxie’s honor, I hope to spay/neuter some dogs in the pyramids area. When the pandemic is under control, I will share details of the plan. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

On (Cultural) Appropriation

A number of months ago, I came across some images on Instagram that left me angry. They were of a famous Russian bellydancer who had visited China, and she had done a whole photo shoot in Chinese clothing, complete with a wig and yellowface makeup. Admittedly, the photos were beautifully done, and her photographer and stylist had created a fantastic scene for the shoot. However, the photos made me so angry, to the point where I wanted to comment in all capital letters to her to stop appropriating my culture. I stopped short though, because despite the anger that I felt about this very white, privileged girl wearing obvious yellowface, it prompted me to think about myself too.

 You see, I am always careful to not be a hypocrite. We all have blind spots and have mistakes in this world of intense racism, and I want to make sure I’m addressing my own issues if I’m going to speak on others’ behavior. Also, I am mixed Chinese and I definitely pass for almost anything besides Chinese. Even though “American-Born Chinese” is part of my own cultural heritage, I never want to be the one accusing someone else who might be mixed that they aren’t actually part of that culture or tradition; I myself have been interviewed by Chinese television about why I love kung fu as their “token white girl,” and the interviews are almost always abandoned when they realize they are talking to a mixed Chinese girl (with direct connections to the first Chinese martial arts school in NYC) instead of the white girl they wanted to interview. I know how it feels to be told that I’m not “____” enough, and it hurts if you have previously felt the pain of racism and discrimination to suddenly be rejected by that identity which had become part of a badge of honor. After suffering and finding identity in oppression, to be suddenly lumped in with the oppressor is shocking and painful. Once I had an ex tell me that now that I’m with a white guy, I’m white now. It was NOT pleasant. As a result, I shy away from angry responses to people when I don’t actually know their story.

 However, another level of this story is that it made me really examine my own relationship with being a bellydancer. I am American, and without a DNA test, I have no idea if I have any Middle Eastern/North African/Turkish (MENAT) background (if that means anything anyway). I have no cultural claim to Middle Eastern dance, nor do I speak the language, understand from a personal perspective the dynamics and sacrifices it takes to be a dancer as an Egyptian woman, or even come close to fully understanding the complexities of navigating the social systems in Egypt. Yes, I live here, but I live as foreigner. I have indeed sacrificed much in my life to become a performer, but these are the same sacrifices I would have made if I had been a jazz dancer or done any other kind of performance art. When I go to Egyptian weddings as a guest, I could absolutely be the center of attention and take the “stage” and dance in a way to make it clear I have extensive professional training and “I know what I’m doing,” but to what end? What message do I send to the Egyptian women in the audience that I’m a guest at their event and performing in a way to take the spotlight? Is is my right because I love the dance and have been trained in it by Egyptians? Will I come off as an asshole? Because of these complex questions, I usually wait until I am invited to dance by someone to get up on the dance floor. I already attract attention by being the only non-Egyptian in the event, so I try to be as respectful as possible to the event organizers. I have many chances to have my own stage during my paid performances, and it feels like these community events are better for observation in most cases.

 This brings up another topic: am I appropriating when I wear a costume and perform in Egypt? Are Egyptian audiences simply so used to seeing foreign dancers at this point, that they don’t think about it anymore? Am I taking jobs from Egyptian women by working here? The generally accepted definition of cultural appropriation is for the majority (in-power) culture to take what they want from a minority (disrespected/oppressed) culture and profit off of while simultaneously disrespecting and oppressing that very same culture. This question brought forth a lot of deep questions for me about how I feel about overarching Egyptian culture. How do I feel about the relationship between culture and religion in the country? How do I feel about ahwah culture, or how people do business, or the kiss-on-the-cheek greeting that is customary? How do I feel about the treatment of women, and do all these dynamics “work” for this country, or am I critical of it because it’s different than what I am used to seeing as “right?” As a social worker, how does my training and understanding of community apply to Egypt? Coming from a strongly-individualist society, how do I feel about Egyptian families and their emphasis on family ties? And, most importantly, if I find Egyptian culture to be abrasive and uncomfortable, where does that put me in terms of a performer of the art from this world? Do I still have a right to be a bellydancer, because I studied and trained from Egyptian teachers, if I truly do not like Egyptian culture? And further, do I have a right to make money as a performer if I find the culture to be in opposition of my own personal schemas and worldviews? As an American living in Egypt as part of an Egyptian family and experiencing culture shock, these are all questions I have grappled with in the last two years. No culture or society is perfect, but where we draw the line in criticism of foreign cultures is an important question. America has a long history of trying to impose its own beliefs and systems on other countries through war or other tactics, and I personally ask myself every day about these questions of balancing constructive criticism in my own circle of control versus coming off as that “know it all” Westerner who wants to tell another country what they are doing wrong. It is one thing to love the celebration aspect of a culture, such as weddings and parties, but to understand the entirety of the country, we have to understand the intense struggle that results in these equally elaborate parties. As dancers, are we willing to be in the struggle? To know how much families work and grind and fight for every bit of their success so that way they have a reason to celebrate? Do we love to watch men from Upper Egypt perform Saidi dance or Tahbib but also feel that Upper Egyptian men are scam artists that cannot be trusted? Are we subconsciously racist against the people from the culture while loving the dance and profiting from it?

 Not surprisingly, there are even more levels to this discussion that cannot be covered in one long, overly-thought-out essay. I think the biggest challenge I have faced as a dancer is examining what I have given back to this art form and this country, which includes respect and understanding for viewpoints that are different than what I am used to seeing in the USA. As a social worker, I try to employ Egyptians for all the work that I do here. I attempt to build better communication between tourists and tour guides whenever possible, because I want to be sure that miscommunications do not result in reinforced stereotypes of the “Arab merchant” trope (more on that later). Surely, it’s not enough, and I am positive that I will continue to struggle with these questions as time goes on and the dance world in Egypt becomes even more saturated with foreign dancers. I don’t want to sound like I am giving myself a big congratulations for attempting to contribute to the community; I often question if I even have a right to be here at all. In fact, this whole paragraph could be very problematic in lots of ways without even meaning to be: yay for the hero foreign woman who has come to “save” Egyptians (insert facepalm).

 Am I justified in my anger at the yellowface photos? Absolutely. But I am also grateful that seeing it prompted me to do a deep self-examination of my own actions and my own portrayal of Middle Eastern dance, and to always proceed with caution. As artists, I fully believe it is important to always revisit these questions and check in to see how we are doing in our beliefs and representation of the cultural dances we are representing. I also believe that if an artist finds themself hating the cultures of the MENAT region, voting in ways to exclude people from these countries, and otherwise participating in racist behaviors, they have no place participating in this art form any longer.

 In closing, I hope that anyone who reads this also does a deep personal examination of themselves and why they love this dance, why they are interested in the MENAT region of the world, and in what ways they may be harming or benefiting the real people of the culture. We do not live in a bubble, and orientalism is real and painful to these parts of the world. How can we approach this art form with humility and respect? As long as I continue to live here and oscillate between feeling like I’m home versus an outsider, I am positive I will continue to grapple with the questions raised here, and I fully expect to have to “check in” with my feelings in the future.

I also hope that it prompts us all to check our inner biases and triggers and not make broad assumptions about people’s lives based on an outward observation. We have no idea what others might be going through in their journey.

[theexistentialistdancer]

The Politics of Dance in Egypt Part I

Contrary to what many people think, I am indeed doing shows here in Egypt. Not a ton, and not every night, but I do have them. I don’t always post about them or share anything from these shows, and part of that is because I am highly critical of myself and I don’t feel like anything is good enough. That topic is for a different post though.

 So what is the dance world like here? Why don’t I have shows every day, nonstop like some of the other dancers in Egypt? In a place with so much live music and constant entertainment, shouldn’t I be a superstar already???

 First, I want to preface this with a disclaimer: I am not talking about any dancers specifically in this post, but just discussing the general atmosphere of the entertainment world in Egypt. I would never name anyone without their permission, and any similarities are coincidence.

 Second, this is all based on my own personal observations and experiences. Everyone has a unique experience and path that they follow, and each story is different based on who you meet, how you work, and your negotiation skills.

 The Elusive Contract

 There are a number of venues that can legally provide contracts to foreign dancers. Of these venues, some actually do complete papers, but some don’t bother because they don’t want to deal with the hassle and/or want to be able to fire and hire new dancers however they wish. To get a contract, you have to audition and the venue has to like you enough PLUS the politics have to match. There are only a few places I know that don’t have extensive politics at play, and they tend to be very picky about their dancers (only want certain height, certain hair color, certain weight).

 The politics part of this world is the most crucial element, because men with huge egos are constantly strutting around, promising all kinds of elaborate things, and making claims about their connections. My observation is that the vast majority have some connections, but Cairo is a throw-away culture in the sense that everyone is replaceable and connections will mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Because so many dancers come here looking for their big break, it means that dancers are replaceable too, and many will work for terrible pay without knowing any better.

 Once a dancer passes the “audition” phase of a venue, then comes the contract offer. However, remember that in a throw-away culture, even a dancer who has been working at a venue for a long time can suddenly lose her contract to a new dancer who may be willing to do anything for work; I have heard stories of dancers who did get contracts and were dating well-connected Egyptians, and when they broke up, suddenly their contracts disappeared, or the venue created a fight with her to find a reason to fire her. Everything is unpredictable in this world and it’s completely based on the whims of the men who control the shows.

 Some venues will promise dancers contracts/papers to get them to work for a reduced rate or try to get the dancer to trade other things to get those papers, like their freedom to dance in other places, expect them to sit with them for hours, or kiss or hug the owner in front of everyone (usually on the cheek but in Egypt, this time of opposite-sex affection NOT culturally acceptable and signals to everyone that the owner has had sex with the dancer whether she has or not), among other things. These types of places rarely can actually provide real papers, and they are (in my experience) usually less-than-reputable venues.

 I regularly get questions about contracts and what is needed to get one. Contracts are sticky business and there are lots of rules that are put into them to control the dancer. Some venues have lax contracts, but as you can imagine, they are hard to find. That is not to say I’m not looking, and I have had some leads but it just has not worked out yet. There is also the money aspect: when you get a contract, you have to pay about 30,000le to get them processed. If you are only working on the boat offering the contract for 1-2 nights a week, and you make around 1,000le-1,500le per night, then it will take a really long time to recoup the cost. By the time you are in the green for your contract cost, it’s time to renew it. Some boats will contract 9+ dancers, so you will rarely work and lose a lot of money, but since you have a dance license you may be able to make it up by dancing in the discos. However, the discos do not have live music, so if that is the reason a dancer has come to Egypt, then they can likely make much better money without the hassle in their home country.

 The Male Politics and Money

 I mentioned it earlier, but it deserves its own book: my observation of the male politics in the entertainment sector are INTENSE. The ego level here is through the roof, and there is a lot of money to be made in the entertainment industry because Egypt is considered a relaxed tourism destination country for many of the surrounding, more-conservative countries. These traveling businessmen bring tons of money and they spend in the cabarets and nightclubs. The dancers in these venues have to appear “available,” and it is not unusual for there to be rich clients of the cabaret who try to buy them for a night. The venue might try to mitigate this by telling those clients someone else has already claimed the dancer for the night, but at no point is the venue going to flat say that a dancer is unavailable because she isn’t working as a sex worker. This type of behavior by the venues contributes to the reputation of dancers as sex workers, because it still gives the audience the impression that she is for sale even if she is flat-out NOT. This gets even more complicated by the venues playing the dancer by telling her that someone has tipped her to get her to acknowledge the men, etc. In fact, the venue may even try to get the clients to outbid each other by throwing more money to see who gets to take the dancer home (in the end, no one will win), because the cabaret is giant scam designed to get men give away all their money in any way possible, and it uses drugs, sex, alcohol, male egos, and dramatic music to make this happen. This does not bode well for the dancers in these venues, as it ends up being moderately dangerous and there can be lots of harassment and other issues.

 This plays largely into which dancers get booked as well. Some dancers accept this as just part of the work, and it’s no big deal to them. As long as they aren’t being overtly harassed, then they are fine with whatever people want to think. Also, many dancers come here for just a few years and then move on, so they really couldn’t care less about what some guest in a cabaret thinks about them. For me personally, I am fairly picky about my venues. I do not work in cabarets and I prefer the Nile cruises.

 The Dance Managers

 I also get questions about dance managers; why don’t I have one? Shouldn’t I be working with someone who can get me tons of shows?

 To be clear, I have worked with a couple managers, but not under contract. These managers didn’t seem to be very interested in me as a dancer, and the big reason is that I have an Egyptian man with me all the time. If you see a dancer magically hit it big as soon as she arrives to Egypt, she is making someone very rich. Managers see “green” dancers come off the airplane and know they don’t have great connections, may not know how to speak Arabic, may not know the going rates for venues, and see someone who they can exploit. A common tactic that is used is to lie to the dancer about the rate of pay, then take their commission off the new rate. She has no reason to think he’s lying, and she’s probably been told that when she gets more famous, she will make better money but until then, this is the rate she should accept. The manager will capitalize on her dreams and she will make nothing in the end, because she will stick it out and the manager will keep producing obstacles as to why she can’t get a better rate - her skin, her hair, her nails, her breast size, her skin tone are all reasons I’ve heard managers use to keep the dancer submissive and insecure.

 One good example of this is that an event may pay 1000le for a show, and then the manager should take a 20% commission from the 1000le; this means the dancer’s take-home pay will be 800le. The manager instead will tell the dancer it pays 500le and pocket the other 500le. After he gives her the 500le, he will tell her she has to give him commission from her 500le, so in the end, he gets 600le of her pay and she does a full show for 400le when she should get 800le. Unless she has someone tip her off, she may never find out he is taking all that money from her. Of course now that he knows he can get away with it, he will get her tons of shows like that because he gets to just sit around and drink tea while she works nonstop and he takes more than half of the the money. Also, any tips that she may get during the show will likely magically vanish into his pocket and he will have some excuse as to where they went. Excuses include anything from having to split tips with other people, or that the police came and he had to talk to them and they confiscated them, or that he would normally have to use HER pay to tip staff but instead he used the tips to do it. All of this is complete bullsh*t because he is the manager and ALL the extras he needs to cover should come from his commission; that is literally why he is being paid. Sweet, new dancers are nervous, may not be assertive (Egypt is a very assertive culture), and are afraid to lose their big break by fighting.

 This is the risk you take when you work with a manager, versus the option of going straight to a venue and trying to see if you can negotiate with them yourself. This is also risky though, because often the managers will be giving the staff some kind of kickback too so the staff will make a problem if you try to cut out the managers. On that note, I have managers spread rumors about me as an excuse not to work with me, such as telling everyone that my SO is controlling and jealous and that is why they don’t call me. They even make up stories about him making problems at venues, but the truth is that he comes with me to almost every show to make sure everything goes smoothly, gets along with everyone we have worked with, and everyone in his family already knows I’m a dancer and many have been in my audiences or follow me on social media. The reality is that they know I am not going to make them rich because I have someone watching out for me, or they are (understandably) concerned I will take the venue and cut them out entirely.

 The best way to avoid all this lying about money is to have a very trusted friend vouching for you, and it should be someone who is wealthy enough to not take bribes. Granted, the shady managers will know right away if your friend is “dirty” or not and will refuse to work with someone who is not going to help them with their scheme. They will try to avoid allowing this friend to come with the dancer by making up stories (see above), or telling the dancer that she is the only one allowed to go to the venue. This is again, bullsh*t, and my own standard is that I do not ever go to a show without knowing the location, the rate of pay, and having my SO with me for protection unless I know the hiring contact personally. If a manager cannot give me that information, I will not take the work. Another way is to work with dancers who have been in the scene for long enough to know the deal, and then they have you cover for them and you can see what’s really going on with different venues and the pay. However, in this world it is rare to find someone who is trustworthy and everyone has been f*cked over so much they know they have to look out for themselves before anyone else, so it is still necessary to proceed with caution.

 Some managers take a bigger percentage than others. Some take 50% of the dancer’s pay, but will get the dancer extremely good-paying work because the get such a large percentage. Regardless, most managers will find a way to take 50% (or more) at the end, so some choose to just work with someone who will be clear at the start. However, there is no clear way to know if the 50% commission is of the actual amount or if the manager has already taken a cut off the top first.

 Another tactic managers use is with housing. They may set you up with an apartment and then charge you for it every month, usually at an extremely inflated rate. I have heard stories of dancers paying fancy, downtown-Cairo rent for flats in areas that are dangerous and super cheap. The manager will tell the dancer that she will make about $20USD per day (much lower than she should make) and then he will take his commission and the rent as additional.

 Dancing in Egypt: Should You Try It?

 I have been here for almost 2 years now, and I have mixed feelings about the dance scene here. As all dancers know, the live music is just incredible. When you are on stage with a really great Egyptian orchestra dancing to Abdel Halim Hafez’s songs, there is nothing more euphoric. However, all the extra bullsh*t is just so much to deal with, and the constant lying and backstabbing in the industry gets exhausting. If a dancer is considering coming here, she should consider her support system that she already has in Cairo; if the manager she is talking to that is promising a contract is her only support system, then she should deeply reconsider. I know of dancers who came here and only knew their managers and ended up in a labor trafficking situation with violence mixed into it. Some were promised they would stay in a 5-star hotel but when they arrived, were told that their accommodations were not ready yet and were put in dirty, disgusting flats in very dangerous areas instead. These dancers were lucky enough to have resources back in their home countries that flew them home, but this is not worth the risk.

 As with any foreign country, have a backup plan, funds to get home, know where your embassy is and have the emergency number memorized, and PLEASE have at least one emergency contact in the destination country who can help you if necessary. Join expat groups online first and make connections. Know the address where you are staying and share with someone at home, refuse to be moved to another location especially if there is no internet connection, and if possible, have a secret internet-enabled device in case someone takes your phone or you cannot get a SIM card right away. Remember that in Egypt, a foreign woman is already considered to be “easy” in terms of sex and if she is a dancer too, then this compounds the issue. If she is staying in a flat that is registered to a man, the police will treat her as a sex worker and this is make it even harder to get help, and since she lacks the language element, he can lie to the police about anything he wants. There are laws in place here to assist foreigners, but it is crucial to have multiple emergency plans in place in the event there is an issue.

 In terms of work, a dancer should also know the going rates in nightclubs, cabarets, weddings, and boats before coming here, because otherwise it is too easy for the managers to lie to her. If there are experienced dancers on a Nile cruise already, it is not so hard to find out what the rate should be for a show. Also, the biggest advice I have is to always watch your back. Even other dancers will backstab and lie, and it is important to know what you are getting into before arriving. Also, know how much paperwork will cost, how much visa extensions are, and what the process is to get these things. I will admit I did not know all of these things when I arrived, and I was lucky to know experienced dancers who were willing to share this information with me. Not all dancers are willing to be helpful though, and some will guard information like where to buy tampons like they are holding the nuclear codes to the White House (these aren’t that secure these days so that means you can find it out too).

 You should also know what the commercial aesthetic is in terms of looks, and have enough personal awareness to know if you can make it or not. Unfortunately, right now in Egypt light skin is preferred with working dancers, as is large breasts, a large booty, and a small waist. Long hair is also the trend. You can be curvy but not fat, and injections and implants of all types are popular. This is not to say that a unique look cannot be successful, however this is a commercial industry and therefore you can expect lots of picky audiences in terms of body. As for actual dance, you should be experienced with gigging and preferably with live music, although ironically this seems to not be as important as looks.

 In closing, I just want to point out that the biggest difference that I have observed between the dance industry in the USA and in Egypt (these are my points of reference as an American) is that in the USA, women largely run things. We are the ones going to venues, organizing, negotiating rates, selling our entertainment services, and as a result, it ends up being a much better system. Even when I worked for a troupe where we had a booking agent who would take a cut, I was very rarely paid below the standard rate. I think because we are the ones doing the actual work, there is a different level of respect for the industry, and when I have other women asking me to work here, it ends up being very similar. I do see dancers in Egypt working without managers and doing the networking themselves, and I am hoping that at some point this will force the managers to behave better.

 Overall, this is not a place for the faint of heart or the inexperienced, and I am beyond fortunate that I have people here to protect me and assist me. Do your research about the culture beyond dance, and be prepared for anything.

[theexistentialistdancer]

For the Love of the Dance

Last year, I danced 5 shows on the Nile, during Ramadan. This is highly illegal. First, I have no papers yet, so I am not allowed to work AT ALL as a dancer under normal circumstances. Oh well, I still dance sometimes with no real problems. The venue I performed on is a good boat with a great reputation and an excellent band so it’s not really that risky. However, add the fact that it’s operating during Ramadan with dancing, and you have a volatile mix.

Okay, so I accepted the risks. I know dancers get arrested, but they don’t get deported. In my head, the very worst that could happen is that I would spend some time in jail…not my favorite, but that’s worse case scenario. My poor guy, on the other hand, was full on freaking out.

There were rules for Ramadan: all galabeyas for all shows, leggings, no excess skin showing. No dancing while we were docked and all costumes had to be changed out of before we docked at the end of the sail. The tanoura guy would go last during the second show so there was no chance I would be seen dancing through the windows while we approached Nile Corniche.

Oh, and with 48 hours to go, the boat hired an saidi guy who will also dance eskandarani. By the way, the show now includes eskanderani with melaya…and it’s now duets. To live music. With no information as to what songs will be played. The dancer I was covering for was a doll and let me borrow her eskandarni dress.

The band is expert at playing oriental classics, but folkloric is not their normal musical style, so I truly had no idea how this will turn out.

I arrived on the boat at 4 PM, as instructed. The first sail of the night suddenly had only 1 show instead of 2, so we all relaxed until around 5 PM. Our tanoura guy worked his tanoura magic with his partner, who is a little person. Then suddenly it was my turn to go, so I went out with a melaya to a surprise mejance. So I danced my mejance with melaya, which I’m sure caused the folkloric gods of Egypt to die a little bit. Then it transitioned to eskanderani, and my partner Saidi Guy showed up but we have never danced before so that was a big hot mess but still fun. We both finished our interesting duet and went to change.

He went out first to do a saidi solo. I finished changing into my saidi costume and went out to join him and we had some fun with our canes…until he abruptly threw his down and stormed offstage. I finished the song by myself, thanking God I did cane on the regular at Journal Square. I can BS the shit out of saidi style hahaha.

Afterwards I discovered that he was mad at the band, so thank goodness I didn’t hit him without knowing. He told me my saidi is too masculine and asked me to be more flirty. No problem for me. 

Now for Sail #2, show #2: everyone told me to stay in my saidi dress, but then I ended up doing eskanderani in saidi dress, which once again, probably offended the gods of folklore. Since that happened, I got stuck doing the opposite for the end of the second sail. I’m covered in pink glitter, the short choreography me and Saidi Guy attempted to create went wayyy out the window, and we have both resorted to Old Faithful: audience participation. I also didn’t dance for a long time because the boat didn’t move from the dock, and I couldn’t dance until we were out on the Nile. I was told to wait and hide about 5 times.

Show #3 went similarly. At this point though, Saidi Guy and I have kinda figured it out. I wore proper costumes and we had a great time with my melaya. My guy is still freaking out because in the middle of show #3, during my interesting mejance, the police showed up for iftar (breaking fast) on a nearby boat. The manager of the boat asked about my papers, and we had a fantastic, impressive story that I was only in Cairo visiting and the normal dancer asked me to cover because she was sick. I’m really quite impressed at how quickly he came up with that one. That show was also interesting because Saidi Guy was going to pull me off stage to hide from the police, but it was a false alarm.

Sail #3, show #4: no issues, great time. Still weird costumes but now who cares, the Chinese tourists don’t know what saidi versus eskanderani is anyway and they are having a blast. At this point, we were all just having a lot of fun. It was also super humid, and I have peeled my costumes on and off so many times I’m shocked they aren’t just soaking wet.

Show #5: police are still not coming, I’m relaxing and just having fun. Saidi Guy and I have both figured out a flow, and I’m sad we won’t perform together again. My poor guy is having a meltdown of stress because the boat reassured him using the following logic:

1. Don’t worry, if she is arrested we will all be arrested because none of this is legal

2. Saidi Guy will cover her up from the window with his galabeya, so no one will get a clear view and know who she is (all I can imagine is Saidi Guy smashed up against the window trying to make his outfit cover the whole thing like a curtain)

3. If the police come, she can just change really fast and go sit in the restaurant so no one will know she was the dancer

None of these helped my poor dude relax. I have a job to do, so I just follow instructions and do whatever I need to do, but he is just sitting and driving himself mad with worry. I legit feel bad, but at the same time, it was the most ridiculous, incredible, crazy experience I’ve every had. No one knew what they were doing, we all just acted silly, and it was totally a spontaneous show. I’m grateful for many things, and one is that I can be flexible. So flexible I can go into a 5 show marathon doing eskandarani and saidi with a partner on the Nile to live music and walk away saying, well, that was a hell of a lot of fun!

There are times to be a perfectionist with dancing, and then there are times to just go and do some crazy shit. I am personally more in favor of the last one. Live life, be crazy, and take a risk once in a while. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

To Kill A Buffalo

 Thanksgiving Day in Egypt went fairly well. I made a reservation at a local restaurant doing a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner, and my guy and I went at 9 PM to eat and hang out. We were completely stuffed from eating so much, so afterwards we went home and had made plans to go out to the disco later that night. We both fell asleep. At 3:30 AM, suddenly my guy woke up and declared he was going to the qawa. This was weird since we had made plans to go to the disco, but I asked how long he would be gone and he said one hour, so I told him okay and keep in touch. He left, and I went back to sleep.

 At 6 AM, I awaken to discover he is still not home. This is extremely unusual; he is very good at communicating, and if he is going to be late he always texts me. I call him and he tells me that he is at the police station. Hearing this news, I am simultaneously annoyed and concerned. He further tells me he was beaten at the nightclub and has blood all over him. Now I am angry: at no point in our conversation when he left at 3:30 AM did he say he was going to go to the nightclub, and in fact we have a standing agreement that we do not go to the nightclub without each other. This may seem clingy but there is logic behind it. I have his wallet, and I go wake up the driver downstairs to take me to the GIza police station which is conveniently located across from another famous nightclub called Luna Park. This is not the nightclub in question, however.

 At the police station, I see him indeed covered in blood from a gash in his head, and he also has a swollen black eye that is starting to turn colors. He informs me that he was at the qawa, and his cousin Hamad called him and said, please come meet me, I’m going to fight. This cousin has had a long history of helping my guy out in many ways, so he has an extreme loyalty to Hamad. The problem is, Hamad is a fighter. He is not satisfied with the usual few punches thrown that is normal in Egyptian nightclub confrontations, and instead he will not stop until the whole nightclub is burning. Hamad also has a large amount of money, and so he has the ability to really take revenge. Here in Egypt, if you have enough money you can really make their life hell. With enough money, you can pay people 3-4 degrees away from you to make that person’s life completely fall apart, and none of it will be directly related back to you. You can even pay off the community narcs to back you up.

 The story that I piece together is that Hamad was out at the nightclub with his wife. Someone at the nightclub was trying to flirt with his wife, and so Hamad naturally needed to beat his ass. Whether someone was truly trying to flirt with Hamad’s wife, no one will really know, since sometimes these men get in a protective mood and just decide that they will fight anyone who even looks their way. Regardless, in Hamad’s mind, someone was aggressively harassing his wife. He called my guy for backup, and of course he responds. He shows up at the nightclub, helps Hamad pay his bill, and tried to usher him out of the nightclub without problems. He failed, as Hamad sees the guy he has determined to be the aggressor, and proceeds to beat the crap out of him. The altercation ends and the aggressors leave, but that is not enough for Hamad or the nightclub, who had apparently decided they had had enough of Hamad always fighting. So the bodyguards and security at the nightclub proceeded to kick the crap out of my guy (who is always the first to fight because he is fiercely loyal), Hamad, and one other guy from their group. The rest of the group of 15 people ran away. As a result, my guy got his head split open, a bad black eye, and a contusion on the back of his head. The rest of the group was mostly unscathed.

 Here in Egypt, if you really want to mess with people, you go to the police and make reports. I do not personally know the laws here surrounding lying on police reports, but it is common practice to go to the police with false reports when you really want to hurt someone or if you are worried they will make a report against you. It is also common for men to cut themselves or wound themselves and go to the police station while covered in blood to make said reports. What happens is that the report sneaks up on the person who has been named, and 6-10 months after a report has been filed, suddenly they can be arrested at any of the numerous police checkpoints around Egypt. It is a super passive-aggressive way to get at someone, since the person doing the reporting obviously knows it will take a lot of time for the report to catch up to them. When it does, the person will have to pay lawyers, possibly appear before a judge, and/or do a community meeting to convince the two parties that they are no longer mad at each other. It is not uncommon for the patriarchs of the families to all meet together and get two younger men to drop cases against each other. When something large like a nightclub is involved, then it gets even more messy. In this case though, the police report was justified. The nightclub bouncers took the fight opportunity to really do some damage, and nothing on this police report would be fabricated.

 In our now-very-dramatic-and-bloody case, first the whole group was denied a police report to begin with. The police officer flat said no, he would not be playing these games. This is when the numerous family cousins who work at the Giza police station suddenly swooped in and convinced the police officer that this was indeed a very serious case. Hamad’s wife, who turned out to be undocumented, was gone and suddenly the family cousins (police officers as well) told the head officer it was ME who was being harassed. Since I am American, this is a very serious situation. The police do not know much about my embassy, but they get scared from bad press. I, however, know full well that the embassy will laugh their asses off at me if I called them to help me. The embassy does nothing to assist Americans who land themselves in such situations. Nevertheless, my passport starts getting flashed around, and Head Officer decides to make the report but without me on it to avoid any bad international press.

 Reports are made, and this time no one even has to cut themselves, since my guy is already sporting a nasty head wound. To finish the report, we all make a trip to the government hospital to document all the scrapes, cuts, and other wounds. We arrive back to the police station around 11 AM. It has now been almost 6 hours at the police station. BUT WAIT THERE IS MORE!

 Right when we arrive back to the police station, I am told by one of the guys that if he nudges me, I need to become hysterical. If you have ever met me, then you know that shit just isn’t happening. I rarely become hysterical, and I am a terrible actress when I’m running on very little sleep and caught up in some nonsense. It seems like we will finish with everything AND THEN A PLOT TWIST. The nightclub realizes they are in deep shit for having their bodyguards beat the crap out of everyone, and they try to cover their ass by sending two lowly servers to the police station to make reports against the group. These poor fools look a mess. I do not believe they were involved in the fight directly, but they definitely looked the part. One had a huge boot print across his side, another had his whole shirt ripped apart, and both looked exactly like you expect from two servers who spent all night waiting on drunk people and then were ordered to the police station to make reports.

 They made reports against our group, and so a giant argument erupts. Hamad is laughing nonstop through this whole ordeal, and he has broken two coffee cups (you can order coffee and tea at the police station while you wait) and is definitely still drunk. Another guy, who is trying to be the mature one, is trying to keep order but is failing. Every acquaintance that Hamad has ever known in his life who wants to get loyalty points has also shown up, so there are now about 10+ young-to-middle-aged men in our group. The police are just fed up at this point, and decided the only solution to the mess was to put everyone in the tiny cage located behind the desk. My guy yells to me, “call your embassy,” which was a queue to freak out and act hysterical. I fail miserably, but I call my sister and start to yell loudly in the phone that the USA will not stand for my guy being behind bars. My sister is completely confused, and I am trying sooooo hard not to just roll on the floor laughing from the sight of 7 grown-ass men being crammed into a tiny cage behind the desk. My sister tells me to think about dogs dying if I need to cry, and so I thought about the recent loss of my scooter dog and start bawling in the middle of the police station. The police are now all staring at me, the only woman in the entire mess, crying. They leave all the men in the cage for about 5 minutes and then a commanding police officer pulls them all out, sits them on a row of chairs that resembles a principal’s office, and lectures them in Arabic at the top of his lungs. Meanwhile, on the right side of the station we have an audience, as groups of men going to court are filed out and sit and wait until their transportation to their sentencing hearing. The officer who lectured everyone has had it with this day, grabs his AK-47 and storms out with the group of men on the right side.

 The two nightclub guys realize they made a huge mistake and want to drop their case. However, it has already been entered into the system, so now they all have to go the court and get a stamp that says they were not really making a case against our group. Off we go in a car caravan to the court with me driving one of them solo, complete with security, to drop the case that the two nightclub idiots decided to make. By this time, it is 2 PM. I have to use the bathroom so bad, and now I am stuck in the car while everyone does their court appearances. It has also been raining, which in Egypt is a separate crisis. I decide to say fuck it all, and I jump out of the car over puddles to find a bathroom. I find a squat toilet in an alleyway that a cafe also uses as a kitchen sink (side note: never drink tea or coffee from street cafes). When I come out, I find Hamad’s bodyguard waiting for me because apparently he is now my bodyguard too. I retreat to the car, and we all head back to the police station. My guy’s head is still gashed open, and he is still covered in blood. At this point, numerous people have examined his head wound with unclean hands. I am afraid of him getting a staph infection.

 At the police station, there is only some small paperwork left to complete. I wait in the car, but they do not finish it until 4 PM. We were at the police station for 10 hours. On the way home, my guy says he will never answer the phone when Hamad calls him at night again. I am so grateful he realizes this, but it is more complicated than that; Egypt is full of unreliable people. Hamad is reliable, and he will always show up for my guy. The problem is, when Hamad needs someone to show up for him, it is a a full-scale gangster drama. We aren’t talking about a small street brawl; Hamad gets himself into Egyptian mafia wars that can be easily avoided by knowing when it is time to leave the nightclub. Hamad NEVER knows when it is time to leave the nightclub.

 Of course, just because we are home now and can finally wash the blood off, does not mean this drama is over. The nightclub ordered their bodyguards and bouncers to beat Hamad in public, so Hamad needs to get revenge, remember? The owner of the nightclub calls Hamad (who spends insane amounts of money there) and grovels. He asks what he can do to apologize for this offense. Hamad response by telling him that he can slaughter a buffalo at his feet in front of everyone. In Egypt, this means that Hamad was going to kill the owner and decided not to. It is the ultimate humiliation to have to slaughter a buffalo in front of everyone for someone else. The owner begs for some other way to apologize, and Hamad tells him he needs to come to his land and publicly apologize. The owner agrees, so Hamad calls everyone he knows to come to his land to witness it. He gathers cousins from a different area and posts them around the property with machine guns to make it look more menacing, and the owner brought with him lots of flowers as an apology. Afterwards, they all went to Pyramids Restaurant and ate dinner, and Hamad pays for the food for the offending party. Paying for the food also asserts that he is the one in control of everything.

 But this amazing act of theatrical drama is not finished yet! At 2 AM, it is agreed that the whole group will go to the nightclub and all the bouncers and bodyguards will greet them at the door and apologize. A “fixer,” which is an older man who specializes in conflict resolution, has arranged everything. We arrive in a caravan of cars and get out, and me and Hamad’s wife are the only women there. Swarms of men who think they are important greet us, and all apologize profusely, kissing everyone and groveling. They escort us inside and sit us at a table in the cabaret. The owner then gets piles of money from the cabaret and has the singer toast us, while throwing thousands of pounds in the air over our table. Mahmoud El Lithy is performing at the cabaret, and he is instructed to toast our table as well. He says lots of great things about Hamad and makes it into a huge spectacle. After Mahmoud El Lithy finishes his set, we all go upstairs to the disco. We sit at the table and everyone once again rushes around to serve our table. I am stone-cold sober though, just observing this whole theatrical mess. After about an hour, the disco closes and everyone leaves. Let’s go to Luna Park, Hamad states. Absolutely not, for me. I have had it with this nonsense and I am ready to be home, alone with my guy, to discuss everything that just transpired.

 Final thoughts:

Did I accidentally join the Egyptian mafia? There is so much talk about families here in Egypt, it’s easy to mistake it for Sicily. Ironically, I am part Sicilian and have family roots in the Sicilian mafia, so this leaves me shaking my head and wondering how I got here. I also have family roots in the Chinese mafia, so what the hell?

 What a load of shit from all these “powerful” people. The nightclub will do everything it can not to lose Hamad as a client, because he throws away thousands and thousands of pounds there all the time. They also know Hamad is not above literally shooting up the place, which is something everyone wants to avoid. At the same time, they made it very clear that they will beat him in the street in front of everyone, and then afterwards still make it “right” so he will continue to go there. If he ever spends any money there again, they will have made an ass out of him.

 Armed compounds? Slaughtering buffalo? Public “toasts” about how great you are? Egyptian society is completely set up for egotistical men. Women just don’t do this kind of thing. It’s all rigged though; these places only sing your praises if they fear you or if you pay them. The moment you lose your money or your guns they spit on your face. To me, this is a ridiculous way to live. I will not ever get my self-worth from people’s fear or greed. I’m not going to chase people who do not want me, nor will I force people to respect me. Maybe this is a very American way to think about things, but I have no interest in bullying or buying people.

 At the end of this whole ordeal, I am grateful that my guy realizes that this is all a joke. He left the nightclub last night also thinking the same thoughts I was, that at the end, the nightclub is made up of a bunch of assholes and they are so slick at trying to make sure they will continue to make money. I hope that Hamad never spends another pound there. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

The Qawa

If you drive around anywhere in Egypt, you will see small cafes literally everywhere. These could range in size between a few plastic chairs on the street with a table between them, or even a trash fire with a teapot on it, to a full scale operation that takes over the whole street and the median as well. Despite the size range, a few things are consistent between all these coffee shops, or “qawas” as they are called: they are 99% all male spaces, they serve tea and coffee, and they have shisha. Occasionally you may see a stray female in qawas, but this is extremely rare.

 Qawas also operate all night long. Here in Egypt, it is unusual to see groups of females out without their husbands after 2 AM, but men have the freedom to hang out in the street all night long - and they do. The fact that men are out in droves like this is part of the reason women are not; it becomes a dangerous place at night when there are no other women around, and with a population of over 20 million in Cairo and Giza, young men will take advantage of the cover of darkness and high population to harass and sometimes assault women.

 So what happens at qawas that make them so appealing to men? First, they get to be out and spend a very small amount of money. Second, they get to play games and be social, and backgammon and dominos are extremely popular here. Third, the night air and hanging out with so many other men means that business meetings can be very productive in this environment; everyone can brainstorm together, talk about what other people are doing to make money, and generally plan all kinds of schemes that may or may not ever actually happen. Finally, there are no women allowed.

 The bit about no women being allowed at qawas is the part that drives me mad. Coming from the USA, having a MSW with a focus on violence against women, and being a feminist, I want women to be able to freely move anywhere they wish. We have mostly banished the days of the “He-Man Women-Haters Clubs” in the USA, and women have fought long and hard over the years to gain access to most spaces. Why do the women in Egypt put up with this? Why don’t they make their own qawas that are all-female spaces, don’t women in Egypt want to be out all night as well? I know I do. I love sitting at cafes all night, and I love midnight brainstorming sessions. I am naturally a night owl, so I get all kinds of benefits from hanging out with other people into the wee hours of the morning. So let’s explore this cultural norm a bit further.

 What I Have Learned about Feminism in Egypt

 Traditionally, Egyptian culture is set up where men are the sole money-makers. Women will get college degrees and whatever, but culturally, Egyptian men feel like they should be able to earn enough to fully support the family 100%, and any extra money the wife might make is hers to spend. Families with daughters ensure that the future husbands can do this too, by requiring that they provide a large amount of gold, a flat that is completely finished, and providing evidence that he can support a family. This actually makes it very difficult for Egyptian men to get married, but that is a topic for another day. Since society is set up to make the women completely free from outside work, Egyptian women have lots of time for themselves aside from raising children and taking care of their house (in an ideal situation, she will hire a live-in nanny who may be be a divorced woman, and/or have a house cleaner as well). These women also have LOTS of time for interpersonal drama and discussing the community. I like to joke that if you pass gas in your sleep, the whole city will know about it before you even wake up. This set-up is the culturally expected dream for women: acquire a husband who can pay for literally everything and anything you want and makes your life easy. The thing that throws me off as a intensely independent, driven, educated women is that a large percentage of Egyptian women LIKE society this way. They DO NOT want to work, and are perfectly content with their husbands doing everything for them. A lot of them do not even want to leave the house to get groceries or anything else, so they just order it delivered. Many women in local areas wear some level of the hijab, and they would also rather be a home where they can wear whatever they want rather than having to put a ton of clothes on to go sit in what is essentially the street, so they have parties in their homes instead. While women in the Western world have fought long and hard for the right to work, Egyptian women appear to not want to be bothered by it. If they divorce, their ex will still have to support them and their children, and they still have their parents to help them. The family structure here is generally very strong.

 This is not to say that women do not ever work here, it just means that it gets to be a personal choice. In local areas like the one I live in, it is rare for a woman to work and additionally, culturally it is embarrassing for a father if his daughter works because it means he cannot provide for her. This puts a lot of stress on men, since Egyptian women are socialized to be obsessed with money. It also means that men have to be constantly searching for ways to make more money, since they have a ton of demands on them, and so they have to go meet with other men to find extra hustles.

 With so much free time on their hands, women have lots of opportunities to imagine that their husbands are cheating on them (often they are, but that is another topic). If their husband goes to a community space that allows women, like a regular cafe, then chances are they will encounter women who are working in prostitution or looking for sugar daddy relationships, and the wives know this is reality. On the same note, the wives don’t want to go to cafes with their husbands; there is a huge culture of pretentiousness here and wives often act like they are too good to be seen out in public in a “low class” place like a cafe. Husbands also play a role in this, as they want everyone to believe their wives are the goddess Isis incarnate and therefore cannot be seen out in public. There is an extra layer of childishness here too, as wives often “tattle” on their husbands to their fathers. Once the couple fights, the wife will run to her father and tell her father how her husband took her to a nightclub or a cafe, thus making the divide in the relationship bigger.

 Therefore the qawa is the perfect spot for men. It is empty of women, as there are no women working in prostitution there for their wives to get mad about. It is often a semi-open space in the street, so at any time the wife could go check on her husband simply by having a driver pass the qawa and look for him. Men can hang out there all night because it is open all hours, and they get a reprieve from work by playing games but can also handle business meetings there. It is cheap and there are many of them around, so there is almost certainly one right outside their house. Egypt is a boy’s club, and the qawa is the epitome of it all.

 As a result of the culture differences, my anger at not going to the qawa is justified from an American point of view (what do you mean that men cannot behave while being around women?), but does not change the reality that I will likely never go to one. In fact, as an American, I automatically have a reputation in Egypt as a sex-obsessed woman, so if I go with someone to a qawa I will definitely get harassed and I will disturb the carefully-achieved balance that Egyptian men and their wives have established. Suddenly the qawa will not be a safe place for men where their wives trust them, but instead, my presence will mean that low-class women have invaded a previously safe space and remember, these women do not know me.

 That is the qawa situation in Egypt in a very large nutshell, as interpreted and explained to me over the course of many months by many people. This was a hard one for me to wrap my brain around, as it is absolutely ridiculous from a Western worldview as it sounds. I also want to note that my significant other does indeed take me everywhere else in Egypt, even places that men do not typically take their wives. I am extremely grateful that he is not one to conform to the rules of the culture here, but I will say that it is very difficult to have a best friend who is the opposite sex in a place that is gender-split in so many ways. There have been many times since I have been here that I have been enraged at the way that men and women cannot go some places together, or even sit together. I will cover those topics later, but this is the deal with the masses of men sitting in the street drinking tea all night long, and why exactly there are no women there.

 I do have a dream that at some point the masses of Egyptian women in local areas will realize that they can dream bigger, and hope for more, and they have it inside them to accomplish so much. However, I cannot and will not force Western feminism on to anyone, and until they decide they want something different, this is how it will remain. I am sure that Egyptian feminism would be uniquely theirs as well.

 *Disclaimer: this is not meant to be a perfect cultural explanation of every area, nor am I assuming that I am an expert on Egyptian culture or qawas. I am simply putting into English words the explanations and information I have been give by many men and women I have talked with since my arrival in Giza. I am sure that life in Egypt varies by social class, province, and region, and I recognize I am a foreigner in a place that has their own ways of living and adapting. I have my own biases and ideas and I work hard to recognize them.

[theexistentialistdancer]

Nostalgia

“Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar...” ― William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury 

I don’t know if I’ve written about this already, but if so, here it comes again. Nostalgia...is a bitch. It takes a time in your life that was really not probably so great and turns it into a beautiful, sepia-toned memory of positivity and happiness, and completely erases all the bad shit that was actually going on during that period of time. For example, today I am missing New York City of 2016. Why, you ask? Because nostalgia has convinced me that it was somehow a good time in my life, and that I was actually just overlooking all the great stuff that was happening. It’s possible I was overlooking good stuff - I had a full time job that was easy and completely brainless, aside from the horrible commute, and I was living in NYC, drinking bodega coffee and eating these wonderful breakfast burritos in East Harlem every morning for $4. BUT that job was horrible. It had no benefits, the parking lot was demolished, the commute was hell, my boss forced me to stay in the empty office long past what was reasonable, and the building was so old that I was constantly sick. Yes, I took naps in my office during the day with no one bothering me, but yes, I was also treated as a worthless worker in an environment designed to ruin my spirit. Nostalgia tells me that that looking out that 5th floor window into the projects during Autumn was a wonderful memory of my life. Reality was that I was super depressed and suicidal and I needed medication to keep me from killing myself. 

Nostalgia also makes you miss things that are long gone, like costumes you gigged in, or jewelry that you wore to every show that has long since broken, or lotion you threw away because in reality, you never used it. But now that it’s gone, and things have changed, suddenly you miss it more than anything in the world. Right now I’m missing a Piggy Face collagen cream that I pretty much never used, but it smelled so lovely. I’m missing a donut from the shop by my house in Brooklyn even though I pretty much never ate them, and I am missing the fall leaves even though they haven’t turned yet. If I left Egypt tomorrow, I’d be missing the smell of lotus perfume and maashi being made downstairs, and I’d be missing my love’s strong arms and teddy bear hugs. 

This is my continuous struggle: that I try so hard to hold onto this moment that I miss it, and then end up yearning for it later. 

I am looking at a silly baladi dog laying on the floor next to me. She is about 7 years old and she is just my temporary dog friend. Her family is in Europe waiting for her paperwork to clear, and when it does, she will fly home. I look at her and wonder how much of her family she remembers. Dogs live deliciously in the moment all the time. She is laying here and sniffing the air, taking it in, and then chewing on her paws and listening closely to the noises on the street. We are on a balcony and she is enjoying the cool air up here. Will I even remember this moment without reading this blog? Will she remember me when she goes home, and will she miss me? Maybe she will just go right home and never think of me again...it’s impossible to know. What I do know, is that dogs are blessed with joy and love, and she reminds me that I don’t always need to be thinking so big all the time. 

So what is the answer to dealing with nostalgia? Should we just ignore it? Embrace it? How do I cope with incredible joy in a moment only knowing in the back of my head that soon it will be over, as is everything. Why am I in such a rush to die? To be old and look back at my story and say, yes, I did that? Why can I not just breathe? 

There is a Rob Thomas song that I love that goes, “Our lives are made in these small hours, these little wonders, these twists and turns of fate. Time falls away, but these small hours, these small hours still remain.”  

So how do we keep those small hours? 

[theexistentialistdancer]

Don’t Ever Be Afraid

Nine months ago, I was at a crossroads. I was miserable, even though I had a nice, new, beautiful house. I had been successfully gigging all around DC, and I had booked weddings, created new venues for dancers, and in less than 4 months I had established myself as a professional, respected dancer in Washington DC. I had acquired a social work job quickly that paid well, and I was overall doing well financially. My job was super flexible and I had very few clients, so it was easy with lots of downtime. My new house was gorgeous, newly remodeled, and had a fabulous studio. I had a big backyard for my silly dog to run around in, and I had a fantastic kitchen. In terms of material wealth, I was doing great. 

What I was not doing great with, was my relationship wealth. I was in a dead, unfeeling marriage that consisted of a husband that treated me like shit and literally did not want to do anything fun. I just turned 30 and took a hard look at my life, and realized I was wasting my youth on misery. 

I had wanted to travel the world. I had wanted to adventure, to explore, and to see what could happen. I had been gigging for 3 years in NYC, which success in NYC means you’ve arrived, literally. And I had just taken what felt like a step down in my life for someone I could not stand. 

So what now? I layed on my bed in my room and stared at my beautiful curtains and wondered if I could recover from something like leaving that life. I was incredibly unhappy and I was living the definition of insanity by continuing to stay in a relationship that was toxic and yet hoping something would change. 

My best friend knew something was wrong, but I was unwilling to tell them the details...mostly people thought my relationship was fine, and we did a good job of tricking them into that lie. I did tell my friend one thing: I am afraid. I am afraid I cannot make it on my own, I am afraid of being alone, I am afraid of leaving this security, I am afraid of leaving the comfortable life I had created. I am afraid that I will fail, and I am afraid of leaving the security situation that kept me from having to work full time all the time because at the end of the day, my life was constantly in flux. There was so much fear associated with my need to be free from my horrible relationship, but I was still afraid to leave it. I was so fearful that it nearly killed me during the time I lived in NYC. 

I told my friend all about my worries, and my friend responded in the best way possible; they told me to not ever be afraid. Look at your life, they said. You have done all of this so far, so what are you afraid of? You are not alone and you have nothing to be afraid of in this life. 

It was exactly what I needed to hear, and it was the motivation that I needed to make the most difficult decision of my life. I was leaving, and by January 2nd, I had told my ex by accident(ish) that I was leaving for good. 

The process of leaving was heart-wrenching, but overall it was exactly what I needed, and it was not nearly as difficult as I had thought it would be. I survived, and I moved abroad, and I started over entirely in a new country. It was easier than I thought it would be to say goodbye to the worst relationship of my life. 

But now what? Am I still afraid? And if I am afraid, what am I afraid of? The answer is that I am afraid of not being alone now. I am afraid of really being loved after being told for years that I was not worth it. I am afraid of trusting again, and I am afraid that anyone I let close to me will just take advantage of me. I am afraid to love, and I am afraid to take an emotional risk. 

And so the struggle with fear continues, because after mustering up all the courage I could handle to take the step I did to change my life, I am terrified of being hurt again. I know I can survive fiscally, but I think another heartache could kill me. The steps to leave my ex were clear-cut: tell him I’m leaving, pack my stuff, move out, file for divorce, sign the papers, change my name back. The steps to opening up to someone else are not so clear-cut, and not so easy to follow. One day, I feel open and loving and sweet, and the next day I feel closed down and protective of myself. I will be 100% committed to something new in one moment, and ready to pack my bags and flee in the next.  

Life is so fucking hard. I just want to constantly remember my friend’s words: Do not ever be afraid. Maybe if I write them on my heart, I will never forget it. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

Business

Sometimes, being in a large household with lots of people is really fun. There is always something going on, and it’s never lonely, even if I don’t speak the language. Other times, it’s very frustrating and I long for my own space in my own house where I choose everything. Yesterday was a frustrating day. 

I needed to call my bank in the USA to dispute an ATM issue. I only have a limited number of international minutes and the wifi in the house is on the main floor. So I took my laptop and my phone downstairs, pulled up my account, and called the bank. Of course, right at this time, one of the sisters decided to play shaabi music super loud. The matriarch of the house decided she needed to cook and yelled for people loudly from the other room, and those people responded loudly, in high-pitched female voices speaking Egyptian Arabic. I tried to listen hard to the voices on the phone over the background chaos, but then I ran out of international minutes and had to transfer more to my phone. Then I called back and went out on the balcony to make the call, but the water pump on the house is so loud right now it drowns out any other noise. Plus, it still smells like slaughtered sheep everywhere. Finally, after 20 minutes of walking around trying to find a quiet, non-smelly, wifi-connected spot, I got through and the bank asked me why it took so long to call. I just laughed...I’m in Egypt. Nothing is easy here. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

Love, Love, Love...

All you need is love....

Or so they say. But we all know that’s bullshit...or at least the love we need is not the love people think of when they hear that line. Is it self-love? Is it the love that comes from being with someone you care about? Is it the love of parents, or siblings, or friends? What love???

Maybe all you need is not love, but logic. The logic to think past the feelings that trick you and realize that what you really need is the ability to shut down emotions and plan smartly, without being tied down by emotions. Maybe what you really need is the ability to be free and unattached, like Buddha. 

What will someone give up for love? Their time is the most precious of everything, and often we see people wasting time on people they certainly do not love. Is it better to be loved, or just not lonely? And how can one stop the loneliness? No one can truly know who you are...so therefore, at the end, we will all be lonely. And DEAD. Let’s not forget the dead part hahaha. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

New York City: The Perfect Place to be Depressed

NYC is the perfect place to be depressed. It’s moody, falling apart constantly, rains at random, and is bone-chillingly cold in the winter. It’s full of dark, moody, underground bars that are dimly lit and dramatic, creating the perfect place to brood about your current state of life. The streets are so dirty that a crisp, bright snowfall turns black and grimy in a matter of hours, and if you work full time, in the winter you will leave before the sun rises and get home in the cold, dirty dark. Life is hard there - nothing is every easy in NYC; not the trains, the parking, the bus, or even walking. Getting from place to place is a task that is often not worth the destination, making it even easier to just stay at home and think about how life has failed you, and disappointed your every fiber of being. Relationships are even more challenging. If you are in one, it’s probably soul-sucking, and if you are single, I’ve heard it’s nearly impossible to find someone worth dating.

Even the radiators in the winter time offer no comfort. Their heat is dry and sputtering, and rooms will be either incredibly hot or freezing in spots. The summertime is no better; the feeble window units offer very little reprieve from the sweltering heat.

Indeed, NYC is perfect for thinking about life and whether it’s worth continuing the grind of work, and it’s cold-hearted in its response: the city neither needs you or gives a shit where you are or your struggles. She has seen so much, consumed so many, and still welcomes more, so she does not care for even a second if you live or die.

In the summer, people create a multitude of events; fun-sounding, exciting things to do, like street festivals and food festivals and music festivals and Broadway in the Park and Yoga Day in Times Square. These all sound amazing, but yet, when you are there, you will always have a feeling of hurry, rush more, don’t stop, remember that after this moment you have more work to do, more money to make, more...more...more...

Relaxing is for the lazy. NYC cares not for the lazy. In the city, the lazy are worthless. You can relax, but only for a New York minute.

So why love it? Why love such a vast, life-sucking, intense place? Maybe it’s a trauma bond with her...maybe because she just loves to embrace the depression, will be more than happy to provide a dark hole for drinking, and will wrap her dingy, ruined, arms of old rats and trash around you while you question your existence, that it’s so hard to step away. Being depressed in NYC is like nothing else. The city is more than happy to swallow you whole and wait for more victims.

Or maybe you love it for the art. From suffering comes art, and the city is teeming with both. Maybe you love her for the warm days of skipping down the sidewalks among graffiti and street art while eating ice cream, for getting paid to dance in amazing locations, for feeling like you made it. Maybe you love her for the grittiness, the unforgiving atmosphere, the rumble of the subway and the view of the Statue of Liberty. Maybe you love her because, like any intense relationship, she is unpredictable and moody, and will burst into tears or give you the most glorious time of your life in the same day. Or maybe you love her because it’s so easy to just lean into the the despair while sitting all night in the dark, booze-filled hidden speakeasies hidden in her basements, and while hating life you still can’t help but think, “I’m in New York City.” 

Maybe...

[theexistentialistdancer]

The Death of Kharoof

My last post was about how animals are often donated to the community as food as a way to be generous and thus ward off the evil eye. Yesterday was the day of the slaughter of the family sheep that was acquired for that purpose. 

We got up early and went and picked up the new car, and then on the way home we brought it around to show everyone important. Afterwards we picked up the butcher, who brought with him a bag with a sharp knife, other tools, and wore a simple galabeya. It was very strange to stop in a small side street and have this butcher/executioner come running to the car to get in and do the deed at hand. 

Killing animals in Egypt must conform to strict halal standards. This means that the throat must be cut very quickly and all the important veins and arteries must be severed instantly, making the death of the animal (allegedly) painless. There has been some research on this topic showing that according science, when done correctly it is indeed painless and fast for the animal, but it still requires taking the life of a living creature. I was informed that bringing the butcher to the house to do this task is the fastest, best way to kill a sheep (kharoof) because it means there are witnesses to how well he can conduct the slaughter. It also means the butcher can take his time preparing it, because that means it doesn’t get done in a sloppy way. 

The children of the house were excited to watch, and they gathered around to see how the kharoof was killed. I, on the other hand, struggled with the thought that one second this sheep would be a living, breathing animal and the next he would be dead. When I was a child, for some reason this did not bother me at all, but as an adult I cannot handle it. 

At the end of everything, the family kept 30% of the meat and the rest was donated to the community. Meat is donated as a very valuable food item because it is expensive, and poor people do not often have the means to afford it. I was called downstairs to pick what I wanted from the sheep, and it was difficult to think about eating it after it had just died. The meat was still warm. 

Sheep liver was cooked in fat immediately, and I was peer pressured a bit into eating it. I am not personally a fan of liver to begin with, and I tried it mostly out of cultural respect, but with the whole house smelling like slaughtered sheep it was a serious struggle. 

I chose to eat oatmeal for dinner. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

The Evil Eye

I currently live in Egypt, and the evil eye is an interesting subject to me. There are lots of cultures that incorporate the evil eye into their lives somehow, and I know some form of it is present in all over the Middle East, plus some far-reaching places like Puerto Rico and into the Latin world. Actually, even in the fundamentalist Christian world, there is some form of it, as my mother used to freak out if someone said something negative about her or our family and accuse them of cursing us. To me, this was so odd because I logically figured that if God was so powerful, then how could someone curse you? I guess it’s a bit of stretch to ask someone like my mom to believe something logical or to even explain herself from a religious perspective, but what can you do. 

Anyway, here there is a belief that if you seem like you are bragging or showing off, then someone might get jealous and hope something so bad happens to you, which is casting the evil eye on you. Therefore, it is in everyone’s best interest to be humble, not brag, or even show that something good is happening. For example, if you post happy photos of your relationship on Facebook, someone might be jealous you are happy and then they will cast the evil eye on you, causing your relationship to be bad. 

The major way to ward off the evil eye is to be generous. This means giving to the poor, or helping the community, or even donating money to the local mosque. It can also mean donating an animal for slaughter, in which 75% of the meat will be given to the poor. 

The family I am with is currently buying a new car. This means that the negative members of their extended family are going to be so jealous, and some members might wish something bad would happen to the car or the family. As a result, we currently have a live sheep in our downstairs. When the car sale is completed, the patriarch of the family will take the sheep to the butcher, slaughter it, and donate all of the meat to the poor people in my area. It’s a medium sized sheep, so it will feed about 15-20 people. This act of generosity will then ward off the evil eye, keeping any bad thoughts anyone has toward the family as a result of their success from having any impact. 

I feel a number of ways about this situation. I think it’s an interesting element of superstition that keeps people from bragging or living in a lavish, overly-rich way of life. It also promotes humility, because if there is a fear that people will curse your good luck, then it means that you will live life humbly. There is also another observation about the human nature: Egypt has a culture like that of a small village. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and they love to talk about everyone. However, most of the time, this talking is not positive, and even though families are huge and sprawling, most of the time a family is not hoping for everyone else to do better. There is no “you win so we win” mentality. Instead, there is an attitude of survival that results in everyone stealing from the other when no one is looking. Brothers steal from other brothers, sisters stab each other in the back, and wealth is closely guarded and kept secret to keep others from taking it. A father may die and leave property to everyone, and one person will attempt to take it all. Greed is a real thing here, because there is very little safety net here. It is a survival culture, even when families are wealthier. 

Shaabi songs are famous for their mawaal section in the beginning of the song. Usually these are long, poetic, dramatic discussions of how life is so hard here, and everyone just wants money, will screw everyone over, and takes whatever they want. The songs are very “me” centric, like I am the one who is generous and everyone else is the one that takes everything else. Egyptians all LOVE these songs, and they all seem to be able to relate to being fucked over by everyone else. With the Evil Eye looming over everyone’s good fortune, it’s easy to feel like you always have to watch your back here. Perhaps giving to the poor is a good community solution for this situation of struggle. 

[theexistentialistdancer]

The beginning of an existentialist crisis

I was born in Kansas City. I was also born a philosopher. I say this because I remember my first existential crisis, at the age of 3 (or a young 4) years old. My family was moving into a new house in Belton, the small town in Missouri where I grew up, and we were unloading a truck. My mom called my name and I remember in that moment, I thought to myself, “Is that my name? What a weird name. Who am I? How did I get here? Why do I exist?” I looked around at the green trees and large yard and was thrown off by the fact that I just “arrived” on this planet in the body I had, and I immediately wanted to know why I was there. 

Now, please note that I do have memories from before this moment. They are many, but they were not of personal thoughts. I remember my older sister and I getting into trouble for running away from home to the public pool down the street. I remember that there was black mold on the ceiling of the house we lived in for the first 3 years of my life, because my mom complained about it constantly. I remember stapling plastic to the windows of that same house during the winter, and I remember my dad had a workshop outside and what the backyard looked like. However, prior to this moment of questioning my own existence, I just existed. 

When I realized I was an independently thinking human inside of a random body, it was an important moment. It is odd to me that I remember having this mental thought exchange with myself, and it also triggered what I would consider the human experience of attempting to find the purpose in this life. I often wonder how many other people can remember the moment they became self-aware, or if it is a sign of early angst that only some are cursed with in this world. 

I have 6 siblings: two older sisters, one of which did not grow up with me, two younger brothers, and two younger sisters. My oldest sister is a half-sister who lived in California. We did not have any contact with her for the first 12 years of my life for complicated reasons. My second oldest sister is a very interesting personality. As the “oldest” she was expected to do many things for me and the rest of my siblings, but she was not super excited to accept this responsibility. This meant that those responsibilities landed on me. 

As a child, I was very eager to help my mother. As I mentioned, I remember my mother complaining. She complained a LOT. She complained about everything too. In fact, to this day, I have yet to see her be satisfied with anything in her life, as she is constantly plagued with anxiety and depression. She would also do this thing where she would lay by me in my bed while I fell asleep, but it would be her opportunity to talk about herself. At the tender age of 4-5ish, she would tell me all kinds of interested things, but the main one she came back to all the time was that she was going to die soon. Imagine telling a small child, who loves their mother with all their heart, that she is going to die soon...

I decided that I would help her in any way that I could. This meant a lot of self-sacrifice. I cleaned, I cooked, and more than anything I tried to give her advice. For a small child, I think I did a pretty good job with my advice, but the problem is that she never listened. Then she would come back to me for more advice, which she would not have needed if she listed to the first advice. Years later, I told her I was done giving her advice, and her words were, “Why? It’s not like I’m going to take it, what is the problem?” Ummmm that is the problem: you’ve wasted my life and my energy that I spend trying to save yours, but you were never going to take it anyway. 

What does this have to do with being a tortured existentialist? Let me explain: I watched my mother be miserable, struggling through the years complaining and hating her life, and sacrificing my own youth stressing out for her over issues I had no ability to solve. I resolved to never do this in my own life once I was free, which would be at age 18. Once I was an adult, I would never waste my life with children, in a bad marriage, horribly depressed, struggling to survive, and I certainly would never tell any small children that I would die soon. 

There is another added existentialist crisis to the mix. My mother was, as I’m sure is no surprise, very religious in the fundamentalist Christian variety. She would spend hours of her day praying while not doing any of the things she actually needed to get done. She also insisted on only playing the Christian radio stations all the time. Most of the time the songs were cheesy, upbeat, silly stuff, but there was one song that always stuck with me. These were the lyrics:

“Seize the day, seize whatever you can, because life slips away just like hourglass sand. Seize the day, with faith in God’s hands, and nothing will stand in your way.” 

As I type this, I can literally hear the song play in my head. It’s dangerous stuff to send a message like that to a small child, already wondering what the purpose of life is. How does a little kid seize the day when they are stuck in an abusive, controlling, overly religious house trying to do amateur therapy with their anxiety-plagued mother? How does a little kid cope with the non-stop feeling that their life is slipping away like hourglass sand while also being completely unable to do anything productive? I was also homeschooled, so I had no extracurricular activities to “seize the day” with, and I had very few friends and was a pariah at church. 

And so I waited, as Rapunzel says in the Disney movie, for my life to begin, all while freaking out internally that I was losing the years I could have been training as a ballerina, or as a gymnast, or as any other kind of an athlete. I just waited and waited and waited.....and finally it happened.