You know that hackneyed ‘everything
happens for a reason’ cliché that people like to say when misfortune knocks at
your door? Well, it’s true. At the time, I probably would have pelted anyone
who told me that there was some larger esoteric reason for being kicked out of
the Semiramis Hotel. In hindsight, however, I now understand why, in the larger
scheme of things, this was a blessing in disguise.

The circumstances of my being contracted and
de-contracted at the Semiramis were rather odd. 
One typical Cairo evening, I found myself sitting in the Semiramis’
disco with a dancer friend and the two managers of the nightclub where Dina
performs every week. Embarrassingly enough, it took me a whole hour to realize that
the man sitting across from me conversing with me was the big shot manager
who hires talent at the Semiramis. In my defense, I wasn’t told who this man
was. My dancer friend simply asked me to accompany her to a party with some artists
at the Semiramis disco, and “oh I’m auditioning here tomorrow.”  

Huh, ok. We’re going to a party with
artists and she was scheduled to audition at the Semiramis the next day. Fair
enough. As the night went on and the conversation between the four of us got
deeper, I realized that the man sitting across from me was, in fact, the
manager of the Semiramis nightclub. That explained why he knew so much about
Dina! 

Arabic pop music was blasting out of the
speakers, and we were all eating, drinking, dancing, and having a good time. And
then suddenly, Mr. Manager began showering me with compliments. He told me I had
everything it took dance in Cairo—looks, talent, youth, blah blah blah, and
then some. He said he could set up an audition for me at the nightclub and
would even pay for my band!

By this point, any other dancer’s head might
have spun with excitement. I, however, have been the victim of many empty
promises, and my gut instincts indicated that Mr. Manager wasn’t really
interested in my dancing. Besides, my friend (who is a phenomenal dancer) was
scheduled to audition the next day. It didn’t make sense that he would contract
a third dancer at the Semiramis, where there was so little work to begin with. So
when he asked me for my phone number and said he would call to set up the
audition, I politely told him that I was here to accompany my friend, not piggyback
on her audition. 

My disinterest in his proposition
notwithstanding, I received a phone call the very next morning from Mr. Manager
himself. He had taken my phone number from Mr. Sleepy Head, the man who was
supposed to be processing my contract to work on the Nile Crystal Cruise in
Maadi. Mr. Manager informed me that he had set up an audition for me next week.
When I asked him why he was doing this, he assured me that the Semiramis needed
a third dancer. Ok then, very well.

I showed up at the Semiramis nightclub the
following week with a 15-piece band. Mr. Sleepy Head arranged it for me at the very
last minute (ten minutes before going on stage, I still didn’t have a drummer!).
I paid good money for that band, and Mr. Sleepy Head promised I would
rehearse with them three times. This, however, turned out to be yet another of
his empty promises.

When all was said and done, I passed the
audition. But of course. Truth was, I passed the audition before I auditioned. I passed it the week before in the disco. All
of this was a game, a sort of “setup.” Basically, Mr. Manager thought I was the
perfect combination of hot and naïve. He therefore wanted certain things from
me other than work. But because he
couldn’t outright tell me that, he went through all the motions of hiring me to
work as a belly dancer in the Semiramis Hotel. Audition, contract, work papers
and all. 

That was when all the fun and games started.
Mr. Manager called me several times a week, inviting me to dinner, coffee, you
name it. When I ran out of excuses for why I couldn’t accept this or that invitation,
I simply stopped answering his calls. Then came the text messages. When I stopped
replying to those, Mr. Sleepy Head paid me a special visit to inform me that
Mr. Manager was very angry at me. It must have been really important for Mr.
Sleepy Head to disrupt his slumber just to deliver this message.

“Angry at me for what?” I asked. “He’s
angry because you won’t go out with him,” Mr. Sleepy Head answered. “But Mr.
SleepyHead! Didn’t you make me agree that under no circumstances should I
accept Mr. Manager’s invitations? And didn’t you tell me that technically,
there is no reason for me to speak with him, being that you are acting as a liaison?”
“Yes,” he responded, “but I didn’t think Mr. Manager would get this angry over
it.”

Oh well. I guess that meant that any
chance I had of actually performing at the Semiramis had now been squashed. You
see, Mr. Manager’s reputation preceded him. Everyone had heard of this kind of
situation happening before with other dancers at the Semiramis. Basically, Mr.
Manager dangles a chance to dance at the Semiramis on a stick in front of the
dancer. If she takes the bait, she must do as he says. If she fails to comply,
she’s a dead fish hanging on his hook. 

And that’s exactly what I was—a dead fish rotting
in the misery of knowing that my standards cost me my chance to dance.

Things only got worse two months later. It
was Ramadan, during which there is very little belly dance work in Cairo in
observance of the holy month. I received a phone call from my younger brother
in New York, who told me that his father was on his deathbed and was expected
to pass any day now. Though this man was not my father, he was my stepfather, and
I grew up with him. I was devastated upon hearing the news, and wanted to go to
New York to stand by my brother in this difficult time. Just as I was about to
purchase an airplane ticket, however, I remembered I did not have my passport. Mr.
Sleepy Head had taken it to the Egyptian Immigration building, where it would
be held for the duration of my contract at the Semiramis. 

No passport meant no airplane ticket,
which meant no going to New York before my stepfather passed away. I immediately
called Mr. Sleepy Head, explained my situation, and asked if there was any way
to get my passport back into my hands in 24 hours. He said it was possible,
that he would just need a letter from Mr. Manager authorizing me to take back
my passport temporarily. 

It sounded simple enough, but that meant
that A), I was at the mercy of Mr. Manager, who had already written me off for my
noncompliance, and B), I was at the mercy of Mr. Sleepy Head, who as you can
tell by the nickname I gave him, is extremely lazy and never does what he’s
supposed to do on time (or at all). 

Mr. Sleepy Head made no efforts to contact
Mr. Manger, nor did Mr. Manager answer any of my many phone calls. He didn’t
want to hear from me for any reason. At this point, with no one bothering to
help me or stand by my side, I decided the only option left was for me to call
the American Embassy and ask if I could obtain a temporary passport or some
kind of permission to travel in an emergency. The Embassy employee I was
speaking with asked me to describe my situation in detail. So I did. I said
that I was contracted to work as a belly dancer in the Semiramis Hotel, which
meant that my passport was being held in the immigration building…which meant I
needed a letter from the hotel manager, but that the manager was nowhere to be
found. The employee said she would call me back and hung up the phone. 

Later that day, I received an irate phone
call from Mr. Sleepy Head, who informed me that Mr. Manger was enraged because the
American Embassy filed an official complaint against him for holding my
passport hostage! 

Ok, obviously
something got lost in translation there, or else Mr. Manager was lying about
the official complaint (which I never got to see, by the way) and blowing
things out of proportion to make me look bad. I never accused Mr. Manager of
holding my passport ‘hostage.’ I didn’t even mention his name to the embassy
employee! 

After all was said and done, I did not get
my passport back; the manager admitted to Mr. Sleepy Head that he refused to
answer my messages and calls; my stepfather passed away the next day; and
the manager forced Mr. Sleepy Head to cancel my contract at the Semiramis. 

Boy did I lose, big time. And I got played. Between the cost of
processing my work papers for the Semiramis, the cost of the band for the
audition, and the cost of international airfare (foreigners being licensed to
work in Egypt are required to leave the country and then come back), I must
have lost about $3000. Not to mention the emotional pain I was in for not being
able to be with my family at such a critical moment. All of this for nothing. Because
Mr. Manager was waiting for any little excuse to kick me out of the Semiramis because
he couldn’t deal with the fact that I would not play his game. 

I (re)slipped into a depression. Was this
really what dancing in Cairo was all about? Would I really have to sacrifice
all my self-respect in order to be successful here? 

I called a few belly dance friends to ask
about their experiences at the Semiramis and at other high-profile venues, only
to hear similar horror stories. I started losing hope, even cried, all the
while reminding myself that there were successful belly dancers here who made
their careers honestly. But would it happen to me? Would I stick it out or would
I just give up? 

And then, just one month later, I
experienced a sudden twist of fate. I did an audition at the Nile Memphis, and
the management there immediately decided it wanted to contract me. No games, no
bait, no rotting fish. Granted, this venue did not carry the name or prestige
of the Semiramis Hotel, but at least I would be able to dance without having to
succumb to some filthy manager’s wishes.

Interestingly, one of the most important
things about my heart wrenching experience at the Semiramis was that it became the
reason the Egyptian government approved my new work papers in just a month. The
new policy of the Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs on foreign workers was
that those who had been working before the revolution could stay. Prospective workers
submitting petitions after the revolution would have to meet certain criteria to
be approved for work in Egypt. As a foreign belly dancer, I did not meet any of
the criteria, which mainly had to do with proving your skills are necessary for
the prosperity of the country. However, the fact that I had been licensed to
work before the revolution convinced the minister to approve my petition. 

Actually, it could not have worked out
better if I did stay at the Semiramis
and was on good terms with the manager—there is little-to-no work there (pre or
post revolution). Basically, I would be sitting at home now instead of working
every night. Getting kicked out of the Semiramis was what allowed me to sign a
contract with the Nile Memphis, which has me working every night, pre and post
revolution! This turned out to be the real reason… the higher reason I
was kicked out of the Semiramis.

And with that said, I’ll end this entry
with another hackneyed but true cliché. When God closes a door, He opens a
window.