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? 😀

**************

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. 

**************

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.

**************

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.

**************

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.