The song “Tukoh Taka”, by a trio comprising of American rapper Nicki Minaj, Colombian artist Malumu, and Lebanese artist Myriam Fares, launched the FIFA World Cup fan festival in Qatar, sparking widespread controversy. Opinions and responses varied about the song, which FIFA intended as a cultural mix to reflect the “internationalisation of the event” by combining three international languages.

I am not concerned with discussing the varied opinions about the song because artistic taste is unique. Taste differs from one person to another for a number of reasons.  Diversity of taste reflects the difference in our moods, musical sense, social and cultural backgrounds, ages, etc. As the saying goes: “there is no accounting for taste”. Also, I do not wish to present a critical artistic review of the song, as this is not within the scope of my field of research. Nor do I want to bother the reader with my personal view of the song, as I do not think it matters here. 

Instead, I would like to discuss how a broad segment of the Arab audience has approached the Arabic part of the song from an Orientalist perspective, drawing on the thinking of Orientalism’s founder, the Palestinian-American thinker Edward Said. For many, the Arabic clip in its costumes and oriental dancing perpetuated an inferior view of the other or the East as backward, lustful, and decadent as opposed to the civilized, rational, and developed West. More importantly, local individuals belonging to the same culture are perceived to be contributing to reinforcing the same orientalist view instead of fighting it and trying to correct and change it. 

Many of the comments which circulated on social media  accused Myriam Fares of re-producing local Orientalism. Perhaps the most prominent of them was the Egyptian Mayar’s tweet, in which she commented on the song, saying: “Forgetting the part about Shakira’s copying, I cannot not believe that when an opportunity has come for an Arab singer in the year 2022 to perform in an international song, she herself decides to appear dancing with cymbals in the desert, surrounded by masked men concubines! So, we are now re-producing the same stereotypical image of Arabs that was perpetuated by the West in the days of postcolonialism! What is this?!” 

Myriam’s choice of costumes may not have been accurate, given that Qatar hosts the tournament and has its own heritage and costume. However, if we consider that what is known today:  Raqs Sharqi [Literally meaning Eastern dancing], in its Egyptian version, its costume and musical instruments, is nothing but one single and wrong image created by the West during the nineteenth century about this art, and therefore about us. By reducing it to temptation, and other erotic sexual symbols, are we collectively abandoning it? Do we renounce it and erase it from our memory? In other words, are we dismissing a folk dance and art with a well-established Arab cultural and social presence? What can we then do with our conscience saturated with cinematic films and theatrical performances by its icons? 

It suffices to recall the feelings of joy and collective euphoria when the Lebanese Dance group and company, Mayyas, won the title of America’s Got Talent. The positive reaction overlooked the -orientalist nature dominating its charming performances, as Mustafa Shalash argues in a rare critique of its symbols, including veils, snakes and feathers. The latter, according to Shalash, drew from the “Grand Odalisque” painting, also known as “The Slave Girl,” where an enslaved younger woman, using feathers and her eyes, suggests references related to pleasure and sex. 

The Orientalist lens was also not present when Qatar celebrated its local cultural heritage in the world cup’s opening ceremony, employing the veil for women, and the face cover for men, justifying wearing them to protect faces from the scorching desert sun. Why did we read those symbols in a completely different way to the song “Tukoh Taka”? 

I do not intend here to refute the orientalist reading of Myriam Fares’s performance. On the contrary, I use it as a starting point to highlight the dilemma of dealing with this local heritage, whose history is entangled with imperialism and colonialism. Can we preserve it and, at the same time, separate it from that distorted history? Or is it an impossible task? I may not have a satisfactory answer to this question. However, I want to bring the topic up for discussion, inviting the readers to look at it from multiple angles to think about the possibility of reaching constructive and objective criticism that does not contribute to its distortion and stigmatization by morally judging its performers. 

I shall start with a brief discussion of that history and its transformation over time. Although I will focus on Egyptian dance, I will make some references to Iraqi dancing. This ancient art needs to be thoroughly researched in the future. 

Raqs Sharqi and its local roots 

Dancing is a language like any other language that translates our emotions and feelings into body movements. It is an “instinct, just like speech,” emphasized Sameer Darwish, editor-in-chief of the cultural magazine Merita in his editorial for this year’s 39th issue. Darwish traces the roots of Egyptian dance to the ancient Pharaonic civilization, as shown by its drawings and pictures. No culture has not known dancing, including the Mesopotamian civilization. Its images and inscriptions reveal that its people danced and played different musical instruments, most notably the oud, rebab, flute, and tabla. 

Despite this, researching the history of oriental dancing has never been easy. It is a largely understudied area in the Arab world. Perhaps the magazine issue mentioned above and Egyptian researcher Shatha Yahya’s book Imperialism and Al-Hishik Bishik: The History of Raqs Sharqi, published by Dar Ibn Rushd in 2019, are the exception.ⁱ In her book and other published articles, the writer chronicles and analyses oriental dancing in its Egyptian version. 

In her research titled “The Dawn of Raqs Sharqi”, Yahya reminds us of its historical roots, which go back to the dawn of human civilizations, and the transformations it went through over time in different political, social, and cultural contexts.ⁱⁱ The author adopts Anthony Shay and Barbara Seller-Young’s comprehensive definition of Raqs Sharqi, which covers a wide range of dancing styles in North Africa and the Middle East with roots in Central Asia. 

Accordingly, and contrary to the common misconception, Raqs Sharqi does not refer exclusively to Egyptian styles of dance, but rather it includes a wide array of dancing in the Middle East. The Iraqi dance is one of its types, and it is rich in various patterns that differ according to the geographical area and the diversity of its components. 

From the point of view of anthropologists, Raqs Sharqi is “what is practiced in social events and celebrations. Its roots can be traced back to ritual dances that were held in the temples of female deities, especially Hathor, Ishtar and Inanna. Its movement emanates from the torso, abdomen, and the buttocks,” according to Yahya.ⁱⁱⁱ These physical movements require skill, lightness, and warmth in translating music through the body as it is connected to the earth, as if it wants to control it. 

Unlike Egyptian dance, which requires keeping a distance between the dancer’s feet and the surface of the ground,^iv the body is more powerfully attached to the ground in the case of Iraqi dance. The southern Hagg’a dance style, whose roots go back to the Sumerian dancing rituals, reflects the fusion between the two. The Hagga’s dancer lowers her hair closer to the ground, wiping it with it while bending her knees after several circular motions in the air. Just before she stands up, she kicks the floor hard, repeating this several times in imitation of the first dance rituals associated with the fertility of the land. 

Egyptian dancing was characterized by the use of cymbals, one of the oldest folk musical instruments, made of copper. Cymbals were used in different countries and cultures and are known by several names. The use of cymbals has developed over time. What was once an instrument expressing sadness or religious rites in ancient civilizations later became a tool of joy and happiness associated with Raqs Sharqi. Cymbals have been dubbed the “rhythm instrument”, as the dancer’s professional performance is measured by the extent of her ability to play the cymbals efficiently. 

Dancing remained inherent to all eras and periods in Egypt, and its imprint is present in many drawings on tissues, utensils, ornaments, decorations, and ceilings of palaces. Because  art evolves as it interacts with different nations and civilizations, Egyptian dancing has transformed from simple and primitive steps to flexible “free movements and poses”.^v 

Writer Edward William Lane mentions in his book An Account of The Manners and Customs of The Modern Egyptians that at the beginning of the nineteenth century, two main groups formed the dance class in Egypt: the Awalim and the Ghawazee. The first referred to women who were knowledgeable in the art of singing, playing music and dancing. They used to stay at home and veil themselves from men when “they celebrate parties held in the harem of one of the rich.”^vi As for the second, it included “women belonging to a tribe bearing the name Al-Ghazi, and sometimes they are called Al-Baramkeh … and they were dancing with unveiled faces in the streets to amuse the mob”. Their style was characterized by “debauchery and immorality.” Their clothes were similar to those worn by Awalim: “a skirt or pants called shintyan, a silk shirt and a bra, and some of them wear a shirt of teal and a veil of crepe and muslin fabric with a lot of jewellery.”^vii 

The differences between the two classes began to fade after the governor of Egypt, Muhammad Ali Pasha, issued a firman, or decree, in 1834 stipulating that all dancers be punished and exiled outside Cairo. Yahya describes that decision as the first political crackdown on and censorship of this creative art, which had dire social and economic consequences for the dancers but also contributed to increasing foreigners’ fondness for them. Perhaps the most negative outcome was the intertwining of this art with politics, authorities, and the politicians’ exploitation of dancers on the one hand, and the growth of local stigma towards oriental dancing at this moment, perhaps to last forever, on the other. 

At the same time, dancing become stereotyped and confined to women, although dancing was not exclusive to women at that point. Instead, that period knew men dancers, as Lane mentions in his book.^viii But, of course, this has changed over time. Today, although some Raqs Sharqi dancers or choreographers who are men have broken that stereotype and liberated themselves from traditional gender roles, they are still a rare phenomenon. Men dancers face significant challenges that stand in their way. First and foremost, they are socially rejected and shamed as inferior to other men.  

Egyptian dance transcends borders in the eyes of orientalists 

Since Napoleon’s campaign against Egypt, many orientalists have sought to establish a cornerstone of their vision of the East. Dance and the Middle Eastern dancer were some of the tools they employed for such a purpose. But a disparaging view of dance preceded that era. Two primary sources inspired it. The first emanated from the religious tradition, the Bible, and the story of Salome in particular. Although it has several readings, the most common interpretation presented Salome, specifically her waist, as the sanctuary on which John the Baptist was sacrificed. Salome performed her sexy dance, taking off the scarves one after the other until she was completely naked in front of the ruler, Herod Antipas, to seduce him so that he would kill John. Subsequently, this religious legacy contributed to stigmatizing Raqs Sharqi.^ix 

The second source was the translations of One Thousand and One Nights, “with its dancers, maidservants, harems, and sultans” even though dance was rarely mentioned in the original stories, according to Egyptian researcher, Izzat al-Qamhawy. Thus, an offensive perspective about dance continued to resonate in literary and artistic work imbued with fantasy to stimulate the recipient’s feelings, even if “they did not find anything of what they read on the ground,” as Yahya points out.  

Later, the international exhibitions in which Egypt participated during the reign of Khedive Tawfiq at the end of the nineteenth century played a major role in the spread of oriental dancing in the West. 1893 was a watershed moment as the dance travelled outside the borders of Egypt and the Middle East. That was when the dancer Farida Mazhar, of Levantine origins, participated in representing Cairo at the Chicago World’s Fair, where more than two million people visited the Egyptian exhibit and were introduced to this art. Dazzled by the “The Street of Cairo” and its dancers, especially Farida, they later called her “Little Egypt” as they were unfamiliar with the shape of her curvy body, which was different from the American beauty standards at the time. 

Despite this enthusiastic reception, the path of this art was not rosy or smooth. On the contrary, it was attacked by the American conservative class, denouncing what they called a “devilish pagan code” originating from the dance of the seven scarves of Salome. Yahya tells us about the negative role of the American media and newspapers at the time in tarnishing Raqs Sharqi. In particular, the term “belly dance” was spread through translation from French newspapers and carried ethical connotations that had nothing to do with artistic standards. 

And because “one person’s meat is another person’s poison”, American dancers took advantage of this attack, adopting the title “Little Egypt”. Their goal was to produce a new version confined to bars and cheap hotels, akin to pornography and nudity, as Yahya puts it. With the death of Farida, who did not have the energy to pursue every new impersonator, the curtain fell on the original “Little Egypt”. A completely different version appeared, later adapted by many Hollywood films. 

The history of the Raqs Sharqi outfit was no less problematic. Its roots intertwined with the ancient Pharaonic civilizations on the one hand and the West, its painters, and designers on the other. The beginning was with the famous painter Leon Bakst and his orientalist designs for dance costumes during the revolution against the era of the corset. His designs and drawings significantly impacted dance costumes in theatrical and cinematic artwork. 

Bakst used bright, bold colours, based on embroidery, and developed the design of puffy pants and coloured turbans for the head with a lot of ornaments and cuts. That determined the main characteristic of the Raqs Sharqi costume,” according to Yahya’s study. 

The Raqs Sharqi costume evolved after some modifications, in particular during the English occupation of Egypt, and the proliferation of saloons and dance casinos in the early twentieth century. Badia Masbani was among the first to transform the shape of the outfit, drawing inspiration from the Egyptian popular environment and Hollywood films. Later, iconic dancers such as Taheyya Kariokka, Naima Akef, Samia Gamal, Soheir Zaki and Nagwa Fouad added their own touches to their costumes and dance performances. 

Oriental dancing:  Cursed in its homeland 

When it comes to talking about oriental dancing, most of the population in “[our] countries resort to using their “swords” in public while touching their bodily “parts in secret,” laments researcher Ashraf Al-Sabbagh.^x Using this metaphor in his introduction to an article about Najwa Fouad, Al-Sabbagh aims to capture a moral Arab social crisis boldly and honestly: double standards and social hypocrisy. Because of this, addressing such topics becomes simultaneously problematic, confusing, and complex.^xi 

Similarly, Shatha Yahya deliberately chose the famous Egyptian phrase Al-Hishik Bishk [Hoochy-Khoochy] as the title of her book to remind us of how it is used to defame this art. The first word refers to “shaking”, and the second to “bad work”, tarnishing the woman dancer as immoral.  

Early dancers’ contributions to society did not help to change that image. Rather, the misconception was consolidated and supported by some Arab intellectuals. An example was the Egyptian writer Salama Musa, seen by manyas one of the pillars of contemporary Egyptian culture. Musa notoriously described oriental dancing as “the most appalling of all horrendous things,” excluding Taheyya Kariokka.^xii The latter was an exception agreed upon by other intellectuals, including Edward Said. In an article he wrote to honour her, titled “Honouring a Belly Dancer”, he called her “the lady Taheyya” and “a symbol of Egyptian culture”. 

As the title shows, Said fell into the trap of using the same Orientalist terminology, the subject of criticism in his work, among several other problems and contradictions. For example, Said exemplified Taheyya as the sole model of what dancing and the belly dancer should be, in contrast to others he described as inferior. Even worse, when he tried to describe Taheyya as a “progressive” woman, he indirectly vilified her in other instances, especially when he called her ‘Alima, defining the latter as a “courtesan of sort”. 

As Yahya mentions in her book, drawing on the researcher Valerie Kennedy, despite his fairness to Taheyya, Said remained captive to the patriarchal system’s labels of Middle Eastern women. An example was when he viewed her as a symbol of sensual and sexual excitement, on the one hand, and as a pious and obedient woman, on the other. 

As for Egyptian cinema, despite what appears to be a celebration of Raqs Sharqi, as the films of the twentieth century were full of dancing performances, it also perpetuated false stereotypes about this art. Taheyya Kariokka, for example, played the seductive or evil dancer in contrast to her real life. In her article on the history of Raqs Sharqi, Hadeer Hassan sees that portraying the Egyptian dancer in Egyptian cinema has undergone many transformations and changes. She shows this transformation by comparing two films produced in different eras. In the 1962 movie, The 13th Wife, Zeenat Alawi wonders if Raqs Sharqi is shameful: “And is it a shame that your cousin remains a dancer?” Hassan puts this sentence in comparison with a dialogue featured in the 1972’s famous movie, Watch out of ZouZou, starring Soad Hosny, that captured the societal stigma around this art which  started to prevail at the beginning of the seventies and remains to this day: “Zeinab is burdened with the stigma of her mother Naima Almazia , and Naima carries the stigma of the street to which she belongs (Muhammad Ali Street), and the poor street bears the stigma of a time that has gone and passed, a backward time.” It’s worth mentioning that this film was one of the few works that attempted to address the societal stigma around dancing without condemning the Sharqi dancer. 

Over the years, and with the rise of extremist religious groups and ideological and political polarization, anti-dance voices have risen in Egypt, Iraq, and other countries in the region. Perhaps the scarcity of existing sources on Raqs Sharqi indicates that. In the era of social media sites, electronic swords are often raised against many women on charges of dancing. Suffice it to mention the gallows erected for the Duhluqiya teacher or the professor of English literature at the University of Suez. From outside Egypt, it is enough to recall the repeated moral condemnations against the dance scenes in graduation ceremonies in Iraq. Such online attacks may have material consequences, leading in some cases to the destruction of human life. 

Therefore, it is no longer surprising that the number of Arab or Egyptian dancers is declining at the expense of foreign dancers from different countries. Indeed, at a time when we continue to disdain Raqs Sharqi, its popularity is increasing globally. The number of workshops, classes and institutes that teach it is growing in many countries, as any quick search on YouTube will show. 

Multiple images, new perspectives 

More recently, some Western researchers have begun to rethink Raqs Sharqi through the lens of those who practice it, whether as professional or amateur dancers. In a study by Angela Mo,^xiii American women from diverse backgrounds who practice oriental dancing share their experiences, overcoming the orientalist vision that has long surrounded this art. For them, it has great physical and emotional benefits. It helps them to rediscover their bodies and regain control over them by liberating the body from the masculinist grip. 

These women are not interested in seducing men. Nor do they seek to commodify their bodies, a prevailing misconception they understand they can do nothing to change, as it is beyond their control. The researcher concludes that Raqs Sharqi can be seen as a resistance method against the dominant and outdated societal norms. Actress Hend Sabry tried to re-approach Raqs Sharqi similarly in a scene with the dancer Dina in one of the episodes of Netflix’s “Finding Ola” series. 

Ola’s two friends, Nisreen (Nada Moussa) and Montaser Al-Zayyat (Mahmoud El-Laithy), try to fulfil one of her simple dreams of dancing with the Egyptian dancer Dina on her fortieth birthday. Before the dance scene, Ola and Dina discuss what dance means to women and its health and psychological benefits. Then, they appear wearing the Raqs Sharqi outfit Dina had brought to Ola. At the same time, Dina begins to teach Ola the dance steps to the music of Mohammed Abdel Wahab, reminding us that this art requires, in addition to talent, a musical sense, high skill and intense training to control the movement of body parts, separately or together. In the background, Ola’s two friends also appear dancing. Al-Laithi appears wearing cymbals ​​in his hands in another attempt to break stereotypes about this art which link it to women. Most importantly, the scene attempted to restore Raqs Sharqi as a local and cultural heritage that is cherished and celebrated. For these reasons, it was unsurprising that this scene caused great controversy on social media. 

Indeed, due to persisting misconceptions, there is a real fear that this art will eventually disappear. Therefore, there are serious attempts to preserve Raqs Sharqi as a human heritage. For example, there is the Tarab project led by Amy Sultan, the Egyptian interior design engineer and dancer, or the “engineer dancer” as she is known among Egyptian artists. Sultan attempts to redefine Raqs Sharqi, ridding it of local misconceptions and distortion by registering and documenting it as an Egyptian cultural heritage with UNESCO. 

Similarly, the Iraqi man, dancer and choreographer Muhannad Hawaz from Nineveh, trained by the Iraqi National Troupe for Folklore Arts, and in particular the famous Iraqi woman dancer Hana Abdullah, is trying to preserve and revive the Iraqi dance heritage in Sweden. Forced to leave Iraq after the threats he and other artists received during the years of sectarian conflict, Hawaz co-founded the troupe Enkidu in Sweden in 2010. 

Re-visiting Myriam Fares’s Clip 

Considering the above, how can we re-read the controversial Arabic segment of the World Cup song and people’s reactions? I think the problem is not in the orientalist reading per se. Rather, the issue is about presenting orientalism as a sacred religious text, employing it in the context of the 19th, not the 21^st, century. Texts and images acquire their meanings from the temporal and spatial context in which they are produced. There is no homogenous interpretation. Instead, there are multiple meanings according to the viewpoints of their producers. The artist also has their own point of view on how to represent and express themselves and their bodies. 

This self-representation does not represent me personally, nor can it represent all Arab women or those from Arab and Muslim-majority countries. Asking Myriam Fares or other singers or performers to represent us all is an illogical demand. It reinforces the essentialist view that treats us all as homogeneous “Arabs” without specificities related to the various contexts that distinguish us. Ironically, it is the same perception that many claim to reject and fight. 

Today, there is no longer a single image representing diverse peoples and cultures. Moreover, with the advent of the internet and digital communication, many images are transmitted in different directions simultaneously and rapidly, not in a single one. Different types of art influence one another. Bodily and sexualized expression characterizes other dances and performances and is not exclusively associated with Raqs Sharqi anymore. On the contrary, it is present in most Western artistic productions. No art is superior to another. And if we subscribe to this narrative, as some do when comparing Raqs Sharqi and ballet, in a way that gives preference to the latter, we reinforce and reproduce the same contradictory dichotomies about the civilized West and the backward East that we are supposed to be trying to dismantle and change. 

The biggest problem lies in our definitive judgments regarding Raqs Sharqi, disdaining and erasing part of our heritage and culture. The Arabic clip may not express our diverse cultures, and I wonder if this is possible. Still, it does not “eliminate Arab culture,” as one tweeted. Is there one Arab culture after all? Of course not. But Raqs Sharqi, cymbals, desert, and the phrase “Peace be upon you” are part of our heritage. To despise some of them is one thing; objectively criticizing their employment is another. Can we do that and finally free ourselves from narrow binaries? 

Translated from Arabic by the author.