I’m not Egyptian and I don’t pretend to be, but I would be lying if I said I haven’t picked up a few Egyptian habits. Being Egyptian is contagious. Particularly when you live here for a while and speak the language fluently. That’s all quite normal, I guess. But it is interesting in light of the fact that I grew up in a country where it is common for foreigners to resist assimilation. So, when I observe the ways in which my thoughts, mannerisms, and even speech have transformed, I cannot help but be chuckle at how much I have unintentionally assimilated into Egyptian culture.
For example. I have gotten into the very Egyptian habit of staring at beautiful women. No, I don’t lean that way, and I definitely don’t harass them. But like most Egyptians,I cannot help but marvel at beautiful people. Which is pretty hypocritical of me considering how much I hate it when people stare at me, even if it’s because they find me cute. Staring is rude and is an invasion of personal space. Besides, I learned not to do when I was in Kindergarten.
But here in the land of Oz, one learns not only to appreciate beauty, but to express that appreciation—not to take it for granted or pretend that it does not exist by averting one’s eyes (even though religiously speaking, that is exactly what is supposed to happen). Don’t get me wrong. This is not an endorsement of harassment by men or women, and I repeat, I hate when people stare me down. But there is something so human about acknowledging beauty. In any case, it can be quite a relief from the awkward “elevator culture” we come from.
Staring and being stared at has become such a part of my daily routine that I feel strange when I leave the country. Outside Egypt, nobody looks at me, and I look at nobody. It doesn’t matter how “hot” any of us is looking. It is a refreshing feeling, and one that I need to experience every so often. But then I start wondering whether I’m looking particularly haggard. I mean, why else would no one take notice of me? 😀
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My standards of beauty have also taken a turn for the Egyptian. I won’t get into detail about the average Egyptian’s concept of female beauty. Suffice it to say that it is much curvier and less muscular than mainstream western standards of beauty. And much heavier on the makeup.
I first noticed how Egyptian my aesthetic has become upon watching other belly dancers. The ones I enjoyed the most were not the ones with the best technique, the best “feeling,” or the best costumes. They were the dancers I found to be the most physically beautiful. As a dancer, I know how incorrect and unfair it is to evaluate another artist solely based on her looks. And I was not always like this. However, the fact that I constantly hear Egyptians rate dancers according to their looks seems to have influenced me. Now, whenever I need a dancer to cover a show for me, I automatically think of sending the most beautiful dancer I know, not the most skilled. Right or wrong, this is the way my brain is currently programmed. Besides, this is how I prevent venue managers from complaining that the replacement I sent was mish helwa, not pretty.
Itis not just my eye that has learned to see Egyptian. My brain also thinks Egyptian.
Last week at a wedding, I saw a woman who was dressed scandalously. All of the other women were veiled, but she was wearing a short cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline. She wore five-inch heels, and (Heaven forbid!) no pantyhose. And, she invited herself to dance with me on the dance floor. There I was, jiggling around half-naked myself, and all I could think of when watching her was sharmoota. Slut.
Whoa. When did I become so judgmental? And about women’s fashion, of all things?
The same thing happens every time I see a man and a woman holding hands in public. It shocks my newfound “moral sensibilities.” I even start wondering whether they are married. Not that it is any of my business, or that I have never held hands in public. But even the most innocent public displays of affection are pretty taboo here, compared with other parts of the world.
Luckily, I am not that far gone that I can’t recognize the backwardness taking root in me. And, I am able to snap out of it and back into reality. My reality. The one that says that I want to dress like that woman in the short dress, and that more couples should be free to express their love publicly, within reasonable limits of course. I liked to think I was a staunch believer in personal freedom. Yet my immediate reaction to these kinds of things is the same as most Egyptians’ reactions. Interesting how that works.
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Admittedly, language has played a large role in the cultural assimilation process. Unlike many foreigners who have spent years in expat bubbles avoiding the real Egypt, I deliberately chose to live in low class neighborhoods. I did this in order to become fluent in Egyptian Arabic, and to experience the country as a native. Were that not the case, I would probably be much less integrated than I am. This is because Arabic is one of those languages that is inextricably linked with its culture. It is therefore almost impossible not to be Egyptian on some level if you speak Arabic well. Conversely, it is difficult to be Egyptian if you do not speak the language. Not that being Egyptian was ever my goal. I just think it is stupid, arrogant, and potentially risky to live in a foreign country without being able to communicate effectively with people, many of whom speak little-to-no English.
Being able to communicate with everyone has generally worked to my advantage (there are times I wish I didn’t know a word). But noticing how much of the mentality I seem to have absorbed, it raises the well-known question of whether language influences thought, or if it is the other way around. I personally think it is a little bit of both, although there is probably more evidence to support the former.
On the subject of language, it is worth noting that Egyptian Arabic borrows a lot of words from English. Especially technology and fashion words. Like ploetoes (Bluetooth), and bloovr (pull over). What’s funny is that many Egyptians think these are Arabic words, and pronounce them in their Egyptian way. What is even funnier is how effortlessly I now pronounce these words that same way in the midst of a conversation in Arabic. In fact, sometimes I think I forget that ploetoes, micdoonaalds, combooterr, bresteej (prestige), boolees (police), billydoncer (belly dancer), uncle (ankle) and rimoot (remote control) are English words. I just love it. This is one of those things that adds to Egypt’s charm. And it shows how much of a hodgepodge of globalization this world has become.
My absolute favorite word in the Arabic language, however, is not an English loan word. It is an Arabic word. Insha’allah. It means “God willing.” It is, in my opinion, the most perfect word in all human languages. Insha’allah means that things can and will happen only if God wants them to happen. I like that. It serves as a reminder of the inherent powerlessness of the human condition—something we tend to forget. Though this means we may not always accomplish what we set out to, it also means we are not completely responsible for our failures. If we do not become millionaires or superstars, it is not because we are losers. It’s because God does not want that for us. And if we do not show up to that appointment we scheduled, it is not because we are lazy and slept in. It’s because, well…God didn’t want that either. 🙂
Do you see why I love this word? It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card.
In Egypt, where the work ethic is relaxed and unforeseen circumstances arise on a daily basis, people punctuate every statement of intent with insha’allah. “I will meet you tomorrow at 9 a.m. inshallah.”“I will have your work ready for you tomorrow, insha’allah.” When there is no follow through, technically speaking, it is nobody’s fault. God just wasn’t willing. Insha’allah is therefore a great way to absolve oneself of responsibility for noncompliance. It is a word you will always hear on the lips of the lazy and the noncommittal.
Another reason insha’allah works out well for me is because my sense of timing has become Egyptian. Here, 3 p.m. can mean 3:30 p.m., tomorrow, or never. I have always had a problem with punctuality and keeping appointments, but it has gotten considerably worse since moving to Egypt. A lot of this has to do with the fact that I keep late hours, as most Egyptians who do not work normal nine-fives do. Since I sleep during the day, I conduct all of my business at night when I finish dancing, whenever that may be. Or bukra.Tomorrow—my second favorite word in the Arabic language. And when bukra never comes, I can always play the insha’allah card.
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Another interesting Arabic phrase that has impacted me a bit is wakhid a3yn (wakhda a3yn in the feminine). Just like you can catch a cold, you can catch “eye.” And I’m not talking about Pink Eye either. I’m talking about the evil eye. You know, the one that causes you to get sick, or injure yourself, or be robbed. If you are curious about the relationship between eyes and maladies, the idea is that the eyes are the source of jealousy and envy. The eyes see others who may be richer, smarter, more beautiful, more successful, therefore they can result in the seer feeling jealous and sending out destructive vibes. Egyptians use the phrase wakhid a3yn anytime something bad happens to them. For example, that whooping cough the singer came down with right before his show? It has nothing to do with the fact that he drinks out of everyone’s cup and may have swallowed germs. It is because another singer was jealous and sent him negative vibes. The football player broke his leg? That too is the result of a jealous teammate. Never mind that violent tackle he was engaged in when he broke his leg.
I distinctly remember the first time I ever “caught the eye,” or at least thought I did. It was during a span of two weeks last winter, before I got contracted to perform in Cairo. I was doing a series of performances in some resorts along the Red Sea, when I got into two pretty scary car accidents. Thankfully, neither the driver nor I were injured, but both times, the car whipped around itself three times and left us with our hearts in our mouths. Same driver, same road, same day of the week, same time, same destination, same stupidity. Though both times, the cause of the accidents was obvious (and totally preventable), the only thing the driver and I could come up with was that one of us had “caught the eye.” Since then, every time I get sick, or when things aren’t going my way, I try to determine who is hating on me before I even think to look for more logical explanations.
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Since this is a belly dance blog, I should mention how all of this relates to dance. Indeed, my dancing has become more Egyptian since moving here, as anyone would expect. This is what happens when you live in Cairo, and as in my case, pretty much learn how to dance here. What really amazes me, though, is how Egyptian my approach to the dance has become. Whereas I always used to rely on choreography, I now improvise all the time. This is what most Egyptian dancers do. For them, belly dance is something that just happens—they don’t do it, if you know what I mean. In my case, being on stage with my band every night is the reason I have stopped choreographing and stopped learning others’ choreographies. I no longer have the time, need, nor desire to map out every little doom and tak the way I used to. Too much hassle. That was okay when I performed once a week to CD. I had way more time and much less experience back then. And much more of a clear head! Now, I even improvise my way through TV shoots, though admittedly, choreography might serve that purpose better.
Though I am fascinated by all the ways in which my life has become Egyptian, there are still some things I retain from my birth culture. Like, wanting to know how much things cost before I buy them. Like saying what I mean and meaning what I say. Like not chucking my garbage outside the car window, or into the Nile. Indeed, I love how Egyptians laugh whenever we are in a car together and I refuse to throw my empty pizza box outside the window. Or when I yank the empty cigarette boxes out of their hands before they have a chance to toss them. I have lost track of how many times I have explained the importance of keeping the environment clean, but in the end, I think they still see me as a dirty garbage-collecting foreigner.
