Well, more like drunk. Is there a better way
to celebrate my coming home to Brooklyn than drinking cranberry and vodka on
the flight home? But hey, it has been a good while since I’ve consumed alcohol.
It’s just not a priority when you live in Egypt, a country as dry as its
dessert sands.

I will admit, I’m a lightweight. That’s
because I rarely drink. It only took one cup of the stuff to blur my already
blurry vision and make me giggle out loud while watching Aasal Iswid. Aasal Iswid is
an Egyptian comedy which translates as ‘Black Honey.’ It satirizes the oftentimes
repugnant ways in which Egyptians treat each other by juxtaposing it with the royal
treatment they often bestow upon foreigners. The protagonist is Egyptian actor
Ahmed Hilmy, who returns to Cairo to work as a photographer after living in the
United States for twenty years. Intent on ‘going native,’ Ahmed deliberately leaves
his American passport in the States and proudly identifies as Egyptian. The
film progresses by showing all the unnecessary travails he experienced because
of this. From taxi drivers to authorities to horses(!), no one treats Ahmed the
way he expects to be treated as a native of Egypt.

Two things make this movie hilarious. The
first is that it’s entirely realistic! I personally have either experienced or
witnessed everything that happens to Ahmed (including the Pyramid horses that
won’t budge for anyone except their Bedouin owners!). The second thing is watching
how this person who thinks he is
Egyptian fends for himself on the streets of Cairo, when it is obvious to the locals
that he is a clueless outsider. 

But the point of this post is not to
document how Egyptians treat each other. 
The point is what happens when you return to your country of birth after
leaving it for a significant amount of time…about how you don’t quite fit in
anymore… even in a place as cosmopolitan and accommodating as New York
City. 

The minute I got off the plane, I felt exactly
like the protagonist in Aasal Iswid. Like
Ahmed, I had spent my days in Egypt romanticizing my birth place (though I come
back every six months or so, I get homesick easily). I was imaging all the
food, people and places I miss. Coney Island, Brooklyn pizza, Times Square, Chinese
take-out. The clean, crisp, cold air. The freedom. The memories. Now here I was,
enjoying the 5 p.m. ‘bumpa-da-bumpa’ traffic on the Belt Parkway that cuts through
Brooklyn and Queens.

And then, I went to see my father, the person
most distraught over my performing career in Egypt. My joyful ‘just landed in
New York’ feelings faded into the background of the present moment. Not because
he wasn’t happy to see me—quite the contrary. Dad was so ecstatic to see me back
home in one piece that he paraded me around the neighborhood showing me off to old
and new friends. The neighbors, the hairdresser, the manicurist, the restaurant
staff, the valet parking guy. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Mind
you, I was starving, exhausted, dehydrated, desperately in need of a toilet, and
still wearing my stage makeup from the previous night’s performance at the Nile
Memphis! The last thing I wanted to deal with was a father half-jokingly telling
people to “meet my daughter, the Egyptian belly dance star and Harvard graduate.”
Nor was I in any mood to look down on all the faces staring up at me in
bewilderment (I am rather tall when I wear my five inch Aldo platforms), or
entertain their ridiculous comments.

“Welcome
to America.” 

“So
you like living out there in Egypt?” 

“What’s
the matter?  You don’t like this country
anymore?” 

“We
saw all your videos on the Internet. Wow, you’re such a talented dancer.” 

“So
you speak Egyptian now, huh?” 

“What
are you, an Arab lover or something?”

“Don’t
they treat women like shit there?”

“So
what’s been keeping you out there so long? Can’t you do belly dancing here? You
know your father said he’d buy you a dance studio, then you could teach your
heart out and make lots of money.”

Thank you, Brooklyn. Really. But the
language is called Arabic, not Egyptian. And no thanks, I won’t settle for
belly dance teacher in America when I’m a belly dance ‘star’ in Egypt, as my
father says. Yes, they treat women like shit there, but they do everywhere, now
don’t they? Arab lover? Why yes, how
did you know? As for how I feel about this country, I love it to death.  Perhaps more than you do. I love everything for
which it stands, on paper if not always in practice. Because unlike you, I do not
take it for granted. I know what it’s like to live in parts of the world where
American values do not exist. I know what it’s like to hide my political views
and lie about my career. I know what it’s like to wear long sleeves and long
pants when it’s 120 degrees outside because it’s too dangerous not too. And
I’ve become a better person for it. I have a better understanding of the world
and deeper appreciation for America. And come on now, “welcome to America”?
That’s soooo Egyptian. 

Note
to self. Change hairdresser. Seek anonymity. New York is supposed to be good
for that.

I’m always complaining about how I have to
hide my belly dancing in Egypt because people there are generally narrow-minded
about it. Well, it’s not much different here. Americans make me feel weird when
I tell them I am a belly dancer in Egypt. “That’s like, Arabic stripping, right?”
And why the heck would I choose Egypt over America? Am I some kind of
America-hating radical left-wing whack job? So, I have decided not to talk
about what I do with anyone who does not already know. 

I was warned that this would happen…by
none other than the guy sitting in front of me on the plane. Like me, he was a
native New Yorker who had been living abroad for quite some time.  Ten years in the UK, straight out of the
Bronx. We didn’t notice each other until the very end of the flight, when,
still under the influence of the vodka, I giggled at his advice to a British
couple to say cigarette instead of fag. That turned into a conversation starter.

We began chatting, and I mentioned I had
been living in Egypt for three years, and that I am a belly dancer there. Thankfully,
he did not respond with the usual wows and whys. Instead, he said it must be
really difficult for me to come back home, being that no one could possibly
relate to me and the things I do. You’re absolutely right, I confirmed. I told
him how every time I come home, I feel like a sideshow… like an alien. That I
have nothing in common with anybody anymore. All my friends are married and/or
have kids, and we have grown worlds apart. But what would you know about any of
that? I asked him. It’s not like living in the UK is so exotic that Americans can
no longer relate to you. Trust me, he said. It’s not so much about where we live as it is about the fact
that we’re not living at home. Most
people just don’t get that. Even the so-called liberal New Yorkers. He was
right, I thought. And I already knew that. I just chose to temporarily forget
it because I was so excited to come home and decompress from the stress that is
Egypt. 

After my sarcastic welcome home, I sat
down to a nice dinner with my father and grandfather in a restaurant. Italian, Brooklyn
style. Nobody does Italian food like Brooklyn. Not even Italy. 😀  Chicken parmesan, penne, and broccoli rabe, my
favorite vegetable. There’s no broccoli rabe in Egypt. One glass of red wine
and another of homemade white sangria. Coming back home does have its
advantages.   

With all the political commotion going on
in Egypt, I have been entertaining the possibility that I may have to come back
home more permanently, and sooner rather than later. That is, if the Muslim
Brotherhood takes over. If that happens, dancing will be one of the first
things to be outlawed. While I could always stay in Egypt and write about the
horrors of Islamist governance, I refuse to support such a regime with my
presence and my dollars. I would, in all likelihood, book the first flight
home.

Which has got me thinking… what am I going
to do with myself if I leave Egypt? 

The problem is, I can’t just leave Egypt. This is because I don’t just belly dance. I have become a belly dancer. It is more than just
a portable hobby or occupation now. It is a way of life, and it’s addicting. I
spend every waking moment doing something related to dance If I am not on
stage, I’m practicing. If I am not teaching, I’m choreographing, selecting new
music, or rehearsing with my band. When I am not designing costumes, buying
fabric, or writing my blog, I am fighting with someone about some aspect of my
career. I cannot maintain this lifestyle anywhere else in the world. Nowhere
else will I be able to be a belly dancer and a
producer around the clock. I guess I could adopt a similar lifestyle in New
York City if I got into belly dance ‘fusion’, but that just isn’t where my head
is. 

On the other hand, I cannot stay in Egypt
forever. As much as I have grown to love it, there is just too much going on
there culturally and politically that I will never agree with. And as an
immigrant, I will never fully fit in, even though I am fluent in Arabic and have
become Egyptian in more ways than one. I would also like to reproduce someday. I
could never forgive myself for depriving my kid(s) of the clean environment and
good education that I received in the US. 
 

So where does that leave me? I don’t quite
belong in Egypt, that’s for sure. Nor would I be completely happy in the US. Belly
dance has so totally consumed my life that I actually get depressed when I perform
in any New York City venue when I come back for a vacation. I feel stupid doing
a 15-minute show to a CD or a one-man band in front of an audience more
interested in the chicken on their plates than in my dancing. Yes, the money is
better, but money isn’t everything. Where is my band? Where is my 45-minute
show with three costume changes?  Where
are my super-appreciative audiences? At this rate, will I have to found my own country?
Call it the Republic of the Former Foreign Belly Dancers of Egypt? Populate it
with Egyptian musicians and all the foreign dancers who have ever held
contracts in Egypt so that we could preserve our artistic lifestyle? That is
obviously never going to happen. Heck, it is easier to get the international community
to recognize the murderous Taliban than to get my fantasy country on the map.  A girl can dream, though.

I honestly think if I were to extract
myself from Egypt before I am ready to retire from performing, I would give up
the dance entirely. I’ve never been good at compromising with life.  Doing anything that remotely resembles belly
dance would remind me of what I left behind in Egypt and cause me too much
pain. I would have to quit and totally reinvent my life. Try to “be an
American” again. Perhaps take up salsa dancing, or dog breeding, or better yet,
get a nine to five. Which may not be the worst thing in the world, as much as
the thought of it haunts me. A big part of me would die.

The one thing I have learned from all of
this is that we cannot have everything we want in life. No matter what we do or
where we go, we are constantly making sacrifices, giving up one thing (or many)
to enjoy another. This happens to all of us. It is just a little more obvious
in cases such as mine, in which I give up freedom, family, and comfort to pursue
my dream of being a belly dancer in Cairo. If my life were different, I would
still be making sacrifices. I might be living in the quite comfortably in the
US at the expense of indulging my artistic proclivities. 

I have also learned how uprooting immigration
can be. Though the blood that runs through me will always be red, white and
blue, I will never be the same American I used to be. Like Ahmed in Aasel Iswid, I will never be
completely home at home. I guess this is a legitimate feeling to have when you migrate
to another country, but it’s quite another thing when you feel it in your own
country. It is depressing. There are days when I wish I had never moved to
Egypt in the first place. I would not have this inner conflict of wanting to
live in the US but also wanting to do belly dance the Egyptian way. The right way. 

All of this aside, it feels great to be
back home, if only for a short period of time. And it feels great to take some
time off from my hectic performing schedule, especially since I’ve got a bit of
tendonitis going on in my hip. Most of all, I am excited to be teaching
workshops in the Big Apple and reconnecting with dance friends. Yet I know that
in exactly 2 weeks, I will start missing Egypt, my second home.