Flying High...

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. :D  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.