…yes, you read that right 🙂 

No, it’s not what you think. It’s another word that starts with the letter P—one that has been pestering me for quite some time now. The word is ‘prestige,’ or bresteej¸ as the Egyptians say. 🙂 It means the same in Egyptian Arabic as it does in English, except Egyptians also apply this concept to belly dancing. I’ll show you what I mean. 

A few days ago, I got a call to perform at a restaurant in Masr Gadida after my shows on the Nile Memphis. I would dance to CD, change my costume three times, and collect plenty of tips. I told the agent I would do it, and arranged for my new manager, Magid, to accompany me so I would have representation. Upon arriving at the restaurant, however, we discovered that there was no dance floor. In fact, the entire restaurant was no bigger than my kitchen. It was an intimate, dimly-lit, cigar-smoke-filled, Italian-style seafood restaurant, replete with foreign wines and liquors, and the type of Egyptians who could afford it. It wasn’t exactly a venue for belly dancing. And because the tables were so close together, the most I could have done was weave through the tables and do a few chest pops. To make matters worse, the customers were mainly drunk older men. Moneyed, though.

When Magid saw this, he went on an angry tirade about how jobs like this are not prestigious. About how I’m setting myself up for failure. He kept on berating me until I stormed out of the place and throw a tantrum in the street. Mind you, I was supposed to be “on stage” in five minutes. 

“That’s it! I’m going home,” I screamed as I got into the first cab that stopped in front of me. Magid had gotten me so riled up that I didn’t care if I ruined the agent’s business or my reputation. I just wanted to go home and be away from everyone. 

Not expecting such a theatrical reaction on my part, Magid sat in the cab alongside me. We each took turns arguing with the taxi driver as he drove away—me telling him to take me home, and Magid telling him to take us back to the restaurant. Magid did not want to be responsible for ruining the night. As it turned out, the driver honored Magid’s request over my pleas of distress to drive me home. That was how we wound up parked in front of the restaurant again. Still, I refused to get out of the cab. I held my ground in the backseat, and I did not leave until the restaurant singer came out to extract me from the cab.

I was irate. I resented the fact that the driver did not honor my request to go home because a man (Magid) instructed him otherwise. I resented the situation I was in, and I resented that I would now have to betray my true feelings in order entertain a bunch of drunk, entitled men. Truth be told, I was completely and utterly defeated.   

Somehow, I managed to compose myself. I wiped away all signs of emotional distress and plastered a smile to my face. It must have worked, because I made a ridiculous amount of tips. But when all was said and done, I had a long conversation with Magid about this notion of ‘prestige’ and why I can’t dance in places like this. Well, at least according to Egyptian logic.

First, Magid apologized for treating me so poorly before my show and making me cry. He then went on to explain that because I was now legally contracted to dance in Cairo, there were certain matters of prestige I must take into consideration. Like the fact that star dancers do not dance in unknown hole-in-the-wall restaurants, much less without their bands. And that they do not work in cabarets or restaurants taht il-silim (underneath the staircase), i.e. unreputable, grungy venues. It did not matter how good the money was.

In another jab at how I was conducting my career, Magid mentioned that classy, contracted dancers do not books shows dancing to CD in the Red Sea resorts two and three hours outside of Cairo—unless they want to be considered amateurs by Egyptians in the entertainment industry.  Instead, we must give the impression that we are too good for these jobs. We must put on a display of arrogance and hold our noses high. Why?  Because in Egypt, this is the only way we’ll gain respect. Humility gets you nowhere. And because once word gets around that a dancer performs without a band or in sleazy venues, she will never be asked to dance with her band in five-star hotels and cruises, no matter how talented she is.

I was still angry at Magid, but deep down, I knew there was truth to some of what he said. At least in a general, Egyptian kind of way. Granted, this was not the first time I heard this.  Countless Egyptians in the business, including other high-profile dancers, had told me the same thing. Still though, something about this whole notion of prestige wasn’t sitting well with me. 

Here’s why. First, in Egyptian Arabic, the word prestige is usually used reserved for doctors, lawyers, politicians, and other professionals held in high esteem. It therefore seemed ridiculous to apply this concept to belly dancing, considering that the vast majority of Egyptians equate dancing to prostitution. Even musicians, talent agents, venue managers, and some dancers think this way.

Second, I am a firm believer in humility. I have never and will never brag about my accomplishments, let alone declare that I am too good for something. I cannot stomach people who boast about how good they are at this or that thing. It is obvious they are just massaging their bruised egos and affirming their perceived greatness to make themselves feel better about their failures. So I avoid this kind of thinking. I have never been pretentious, nor am I known for arrogance.

Third, I am practical. If I stand to benefit from something that will not harm me, I will most likely do it. Such as dancing in this tiny restaurant, or performing in the Red Sea resorts to CD.  In the restaurant, I make a lot of money without so much as breaking a sweat. Nobody touches me or insults me, and nobody even knows my name. In the Red Sea resorts, I get major recognition from Egyptian family audiences, make important contacts, and get many high profile, well-paying parties from people who watch my show. For me, this offsets the fact that these gigs pay little money, and that I destroy my beautiful dance shoes performing in the outdoor areas of these resorts on broken concrete floors covered in sand.

There’s something important I should note here. In the Egyptian belly dance world, ‘prestige’ can be inversely proportional to money. Strangely, dancing with your band on five-star cruises and at hotels is not as remunerative as dancing to a CD in a restaurant or third-rate cabaret.  That’s just the way it is. In cabarets and restaurants, dancers can make up to thousands of pounds in tips. In hotels and on cruises, tipping is strictly prohibited—hotel and boat managers think it’s a sleazy gesture, even if the tip is placed in your hand. Thus, they try their best not to emulate the Haram Street cabaret atmosphere. I remember the first time I danced on a Nile cruise with a band about two years ago. A woman in the audience placed a 100 EGP note in my hand. All hell broke loose behind me, and the singer instructed me to return the money to the woman while I was still on stage. So I did. I could tell she was slightly offended, and I was slightly embarrassed at having to return the tip. Tipping is a sign of appreciation. Performers should be receptive of that appreciation.

Let me tell you, this thinking gets taken even further. I’ve encountered many other prestige issues. Things like never dealing directly with costumers, agents, venue managers, or musicians—the reason being that the belly dancer is ‘above’ all of that. Too busy and too famous to be dealing with such plebians. That is why she hires a manager to deal with all of these people on her behalf. 

Along with the “I’m too good to work at your restaurant, take your tips, and deal with you personally” prestige policy is the issue of pricing and availability. When an agent or client calls you—your manager, I mean, to perform at a private event, prestige dictates that you quote an unreasonably high price and pretend you are not really interested in the job. Even if you get called to dance at the president’s daughter’s wedding! Even if you’re sitting home and really need the work. The high price and careless attitude are supposed to make clients believe you are in high demand. You have more work than you can handle because you are the best belly dancer who has ever lived. Basically, you play hard-to-get with work.

Can you imagine how uncomfortable this is for me? Where I come from, when you want to work in any field, you express your enthusiasm to prospective employers. You follow your interview with a phone call to reiterate your interest in the position. You also try to keep your prices reasonable in order to encourage employers to hire you instead of your competition. Here, it’s the complete opposite. 

Then there is the whole issue of not dancing ‘drob.’ Drob is the word Egyptians use when a dancer does not show up to her show. Just like that. With no warning. She may be sick, or may have decided to take a better paying job somewhere else. Either way, the venue in which she is supposed to be dancing is now stuck, and will desperately search for a last-minute replacement. Another dancer. Any dancer. Good, bad, pretty, ugly, licensed, unlicensed. The replacement dancer “gaya drob,” meaning, she is just substituting for one night. Why is this a no-no according to belly dance prestige protocol? Because it gives the impression that the reason you are available to work at the last minute is because you are not in demand. You are therefore desperate for work. 

All of this has been a learning experience for me. As an American, I have my own way of thinking and doing things, oftentimes quite different from the way things are done here. And with all of these pretentious restrictions, I feel a bit stifled. I’m not sure I will ever buy into the whole idea of prestige as it applies to belly dance, but, as the old saying goes, when in Rome.