Be All That You Can Be… Unless You’re Me

I spent most of 2024 flirting with the idea of bootcamp. Not Zumba bootcamp, but real bootcamp. Army bootcamp. “Be all that you can be” bootcamp. Over the course of the year, my unlikely thought-obsession took on a life of its own. It started out innocently enough—a mere entertainment of the possibility (more like the absurdity) of someone like me joining the Army. 

Me. Forty-one-years old. Unconventional and nonconformist. Irreverent. Snappy. Spicy. Analytical and unpredictable. Feminine but not always feminist. What could I offer the US Army other than a Brooklyn attitude and a decade of surviving the metaphorical jungle-gym of Cairo? 

I thought about it and concluded that was more than enough. 

Russian Red

And just like that, I found myself in Brighton Beach. My favorite place in all of Brooklyn. I didn't think I'd make it here during this emergency trip back 'home,' but a long-time friend made that happen last night. 

I love this area because it's the one in which I feel the most foreign. Throughout my entire life, strangers have always addressed me in Spanish and Arabic, but last night, a woman spoke to me in Russian. She was trying to lure me into Tatiana, a landmark restaurant and signature piece of Brighton boardwalk real estate. So, I figured I'd play the part. I rolled out a pretty convincing 'ya ni gavaru pa ruski.’ 'I don't speak Russian', to which the lady responded with a disbelieving chuckle. I myself was a in a state of disbelief--I look many things to many people, but Russian isn't one of them. As I began to survey my surroundings, however, I realized why she thought I was Russian. It was my red hair. Almost every woman on that solidly Russian boardwalk had fake red hair. Flaming red. Russian red. Vampire red. In that sense, I fit right in. (It looked like something straight out of the Real Slim Shady music video.😀) One lady with shoulder length, fire engine red hair was wearing a green outfit to match her thick green eyeliner. She looked like Christmas, and I must admit, she dazzled my post-Cairo eyes, which have become accustomed to drab and frump of generic America. Even the older ladies donned the same daring shades of red. And orange, and eggplant, and cherry. The one that captured my attention the most was sitting on a bench wearing a chrome silver winter jacket over shorts, blasting Russian pop from her nineties era boom box. My friend commented that it felt like Moscow. I added 'Soviet' to his observation. Not that either of us experienced the Soviet Union-- it's just the kind of thing you know when you see. 

How to Attract an Arab Boyfriend (for real)

When I was a baby belly dancer in New York City, a woman almost ten years my senior in age and in dance wanted to learn something from me. It wasn’t a dance move or even a makeup hack—quite honestly, I didn’t have much to offer in either department at that age. Instead, she wanted me to teach her how to attract (and more importantly keep), an Arab boyfriend. You could imagine the quizzical look on my face as I listened to her request. For starters, that anyone would consider my 23-year-old self an expert in ANYTHING was flattering. Not gonna lie. Then of course there was the fact that I had been hitherto unaware that the…“phenomenon” to which she referred was a thing. It’s true, I was already on Arab boyfriend number three at that point in my life (two Syrians and one Egyptian), but not due to any deliberate machinations on my part. It just happened. All I can say is that my look and temperament seemed to attract Middle Eastern men. Probably more the latter than the former. Or let’s say it was my look that attracted them and my temperament that kept them around. Almost fifteen years later, the looks part remains the same. My temperament, not so much. I’ve learned a few things about boundaries and self-respect. Still, at the time, I didn’t perceive myself as possessing any special skill set, much less one that others would covet. Nor did I think snagging an Arab boyfriend was any different than snagging any other man, black, white, or anything in between.

DROP THE PROP: Dancing to Mawwal

Hello! And thank you for your interest in Drop the Prop, my groundbreaking series of online Egyptian dance workshops! The topic of my first workshop is ' Dancing to Mawwal.' If you’ve already purchased this series, great! Read on to learn more about the history and development of mawwal (plural is mawaweel). If you haven’t, now’s your chance. Just click on this link, create an account with Teachable, and login to the workshop.

I imagine ‘mawwal’ might be a new term for some of you, so let me briefly define it. Mawwal is the improvisational singing that usually occurs in the beginning of an Arabic song with little to no musical accompaniment. Think of songs like Bint Il-Sultan; Mawood; and Inta Omri. Each contains a mawwal towards its beginning that you can probably recognize.

So what?, you might be thinking. Why dedicate an entire dance workshop to such a topic?

Because…

      1.   …it’s obscure. No one teaches this in a live or virtual setting, because…

     

      2.   …it’s challenging. Most dancers don’t know how to dance to mawaweel. Either they don’t understand Arabic, or they find dancing to music-less lyrics counterintuitive. A lot of times it’s both. Most will edit them out if they’re dancing to canned music, or else leave them (or tolerate them when dancing to live music) but meaninglessly flail around until the music kicks in.

Dance or Die

Dubai

The following is an excerpt from Fire In The Belly, a memoir by Zaina Brown. I've known Zaina for more than ten years now. We go back to Yosry Sharif in NYC. :) She amazed me then and she amazes now. Her dancing, her integrity, her adventurous spirit, and now, this brain child of hers about her travels as a foreign dancer across the Middle East and Africa. Simply put, you NEED to buy her book. It'll give you a good hard look into what it means to be a dancer in the Arab world.

Access Fire in the Belly on Facebook or on Instagram. 

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“I will put you in the program for April. But, you will need a tan, a small injection of silicon in your lips, and you should gain four kilograms. Then you will have just the right look for a bellydancer!” Salim exclaimed from the driver’s seat.

“Okay, Salim. Just for you, I’ll get a spray tan. But I don’t think I should gain four kilos!” I didn’t bother explaining that injecting silicon into the lips was a terrible idea. Hyaluronic acid, however, could be arranged. A temporary tint was no problem, either, but it would have to be a spray tan. I knew from experience that self-tanners from a bottle made your hands bright orange and your skin smell like rotisserie chicken. Going on a heavy diet to gain weight was a ludicrous gamble, though. Club-goers in Dubai were all too quick to call a bellydancer fat.

(Un)famous

‘Do I look like a faggot to you?’ This was Mohamed El-Sobky’s response when I nudged him to the dance floor to avoid entertaining him in the back corner of the club. Mohamed El-Sobky. Butcher turned movie mogul. The man most credited with the demise of wholesome Egyptian culture. ‘Any man who dances is a faggot,’ he elaborated. Well then, the voice in my head said. I’ll just have to dance with those ‘faggots’ over there while you down your whiskey wondering how this belly dancer snubbed you. YOU, Pharaoh of Egyptian cinema, who could make me famous overnight. You expect me to fall at your feet, but I won’t. I’m going to treat you the way I would any other drunken meat hacker – with caution and disgust.

This was how I met El-Sobky. For years I had dreamed of meeting this person, this… ‘legend.’ But Egyptians in the entertainment business advised me against it. ‘Ma balaash,’ they would say. ‘Don’t do it. He’ll make you famous, but not without having you for dinner. When he’s done with you he’ll throw you to the dogs like an old bone as he looks for the next piece of meat. Are you OK with that?’ 

Naked Navel

I wrote this last year while I was still in Cairo. I did not want to publish it at the time, for obvious reasons. A slightly different version of it was published on worldofdancers.com.

It had been a while since my last run-in with the authorities. Three or four years. I was starting to feel invincible. Many foreign dancers had recently spent nights in police departments​, and one had been deported. Yet here I was dancing all over town, completely unmolested by the notorious (and quite useless) belly dance police. AKA mosanafaat, and shortat il-adaab, which translates as morals/principles/behavior police. Their job is to crash weddings and turn up unexpectedly at night clubs to fine and arrest belly dancers for infractions such as dancing without a license. Or, in the case of a 'licensed foreigner' such as myself, for dancing at any venue other than the one she’s contracted with. They can also arrest us for inappropriate costuming, i.e. a two-piece bedla without shorts or a stomach covering (shabaka). Basically, they are government funded party poopers, authorized by the ‘Democratic’ Arab Republic of Egypt to stop us mid-performance and take us to the nearest police precinct, if need be. 

I’m convinced the only reason such a thing exists is so the government can employ more bureaucrats. And why not? It’s a win-win situation. The government makes money from fines and jail terms, and the bureaucrats get a monthly salary in addition to the bribes they collect from managers seeking to keep dancers out of jail. Additionally, they get to fool themselves into believing they are good Muslims even though they allow belly dancing, cuz shabaka. 

Thoughts on China

These are some of my reflections on China (or rather, Beijing) after spending ten days there. I present this not as the truth, but as my truth, based on my observations there.

1. The air quality wasn't nearly as bad as everyone said it would be. Then again, I may not be the best judge of this, considering I lived in Cairo for ten years and rarely got sick. Apparently, I thrive in toxic environments...

2. It's obvious that whatever western colonialism happened there had minimal impact on the country. Language, culture, and behavior are mostly uninfluenced by western norms. English is not very widespread. Those who speak English are mainly younger and a bit difficult to understand. Those who do not speak aren’t even familiar with basics like yes, no, toilet, hotel, and other English words are pretty standard around the world. Not even the names for basic technology. Chinese has a word for everything. This makes it difficult for non Chinese-speaking tourists to navigate, but it's also beautifully refreshing to see an ancient culture very much intact… even if you come across an occasional McDonald's, Pizza Hut, or KFC. 

Oppression-- In the Eye of the Beholder?

I’m going to take a break from trying to be FAMOUS! to be a little more intellectual. Just for now. This might be long and dense, so I apologize in advance, but the topic has been on my mind for a while. Oppression. Like most of you, I received the standard American liberal arts education. The concept of oppression permeated the general curriculum. It seeped into our political science and history classes. Art history classes. Sociology and economics classes. By now, it has probably found its way into the hard sciences, music, and physical education. In grad school, I did my master's in Middle Eastern Studies, so you can imagine how much back and forth we did over oppression—the oppression of regional populations by European imperialists, the oppression of religious minorities, the oppression of women (of course this was the biggie), and so on and so forth. Not surprisingly, the consensus among faculty and students was that women are not oppressed. Not even the ones who are forced to cover their faces, or who have minimal rights, or who suffer what to us constitute atrocities at the hands of male relatives, and by that larger body of men we call government. The reason they’re not oppressed? Because they don't believe themselves to be. It’s as simple as that. So basically, being unconvinced and/or unaware of your oppression means you are in fact not oppressed. Yes? By that logic, a very young child who is molested is not abused because he/she is unaware of it. Or a person who is born into and dies in slavery is not oppressed because as far as they’re concerned, a) things have always been that way *for their people*, b) they are unaware that things could be better *for their people* and c) they are unaware that they have been cheated out of their human dignity. Or, a North Korean. Not oppressed for the same reasons that apply to slaves. These are three different examples with one thing in common: the object(s) of certain behaviors or cultural institutions which most of us would describe as abusive/oppressive does not know that those behaviors are considered abusive, oppressive, and unhealthy by others. So that makes it ok, according to the logic behind the assumption that lack of awareness of one’s oppression equals lack of *actual* oppression.

Midnight Musings

Disclaimer: I wrote this while suffering from severe PMS.

This might sound a little strange, but I'm haunted. Not by ghosts or ghouls, but by the fact that my life is relatively... easy. I have a job that I love. I'm living 'the dream,' and I make decent money doing it. I have no husband, no kids, and no alcohol or drug addictions. Most of my family is still alive. I've traveled the world and have friends and fans all over. I speak three languages. I obtained a master's degree from an elite university when I was 24 years old. Seven years later, I'm completely debt free. My biggest concern is what color my next costume will be. And yet, I'm not completely happy. Grateful, yes. Happy? Not a hundred percent.

I know. You just want to slap me. Countless people around the globe dream of living a life like mine... doing everything they've ever dreamed of, climbing to the top in whatever they do, having so many choices without a worry in the world. Sure, I have my trials and tribulations (mainly self-inflicted and the result of poor judgment (especially when it comes to men)), but they pale in comparison to everything that's great about my life. So what's my problem? I'm not exactly sure, but in trying to figure out, I've stumbled upon a couple of scary recurring thoughts:

Dala3 on Steriods

I wrote this sometime in 2014 but never published it.

Oops.  I did it again.  I just shot another music video.  This time with an unknown singer who wants to make it big.  Nothing special.  Just your ordinary, low budget, thoughtless, uninspiring, very Egyptian clip that makes you wonder why producers make so much money.  I agreed to be a part of it because, well, because... I knew it would make for good blog content! No, that's not why. :)  I did it because a) I didn't know what I was in for, b) getting your face on screen is great promo and results in more high-end gigs,  c) I'm always up for a new experience d) I needed a good laugh, which is almost always guaranteed at these things, and e) it really does make for good blogging.

The laughs, or rather regrets, started with the makeup 'artist,' a 25-year old boy with a unibrow and a chip on his shoulder.  I arrived at the studio already made-up, as I had just come from work, and figured I'd just freshen my makeup before going on set.  Not so.  UniBoy handed me a bottle of rose water, a cotton pad, and told me to remove my makeup.  But my makeup is fine the way it is, I protested.  Take it off! he said.  So I went to the bathroom and proceeded to remove, more like smear, the makeup all over my face.  Great.  I looked like I was ready for Halloween.  Rose water proved no match for my waterproof Maybelline eye makeup.  Now, if they had given me some olive oil...

Egypt's Identity Crisis

I wrote this in 2014 but I didn't publish it back then.

Two things you don't want to be while living in the Muslim world: gay and atheist. The consequences for being either or both can be severe, and may include ostracization, imprisonment, and even death. For though many conveniently ignore major parts of their religion, almost no one denies the existence of God or believes in gay rights. And they have zero tolerance for those who do.

We were once again reminded of this last month in Egypt, when the new "secular" government publicly declared war on both groups of people. Authorities arrested four men at a party for engaging in homosexual acts. Three of them were sentenced to eight years in prison, while the fourth was sentenced to three years and hard labor. They were accused of cross-dressing and attending "deviant sexual parties."

Stuff

My alternative title for this entry is ‘Shit Egyptians Ask Me to Bring Back from America.’ :D

Whenever I leave Egypt for a vacation, I try to be discreet about it. Not because I’m superstitious, but because if I let people know, everyone will ask me to bring them Stuff. And they’re rarely modest in their requests. I don’t mind bringing back a few necessities for close friends. But when everyone from the bawab (doorman/keeper of Islamic morality in your building) to that ‘friend’ who only and coincidentally calls you a week before your annual vacation sticks you with a shopping list, we have a problem.

You see, the airlines only allow you a total of one hundred pounds of Stuff. That would be more than enough if I were constantly going back and forth from Cairo to the US, but I don’t. I only come home once a year, which means that those hundred pounds I bring back have to last me a whole year, until my next visit when I can replenish. It doesn’t help that the Stuff I buy is heavy. Things I buy include massive amounts of clothes, impractical shoes, fabric (which is currently contraband in Egypt), supplements, more supplements, several bottles of Bragg’s organic apple cider vinegar (with the mother, in case you needed to know), several tubs of extra virgin cold-pressed coconut oil, cosmetics, lashes, tens of boxes of instant manicure, tampons, pads, and if it’s mating season, condoms and such. So I don’t have a lot of space to be bringing people unnecessary luxury items.

The Fainting Drummer

If there's anyone in this godforsaken place who can get away with staring at my ass, it's my drummer. Actually, that's his job. I pay him to observe every drop, lock, twist, twerk, clench, accent, bounce, circle, roll, shimmy, vibration, jiggle, wiggle and wobble that it's capable of doing, and to create a corresponding sound for each movement. Doom; tak; traaaaaaK!; dr-r-r-r-r-r…; dish, etc. This is called translation, and it's what draws attention to my moves. So basically, he's my butt's translator. Or spokesman. Don't laugh. It's a serious job (and a much coveted one in the land of sexual frustration). But it isn't easy. You see, my butt is a complicated thing. It has a mind of its own, and it moves in ways that even I don't fully comprehend. Somehow though, my drummer understands it. I want to say it's because we've been working together almost every single night for the past five years, but that's not the reason. Tika understood my teeze from day one. He got right on stage with me and translated every movement it did, as if we had choreographed our routine.

I don't know how he did it. All of the other drummers I worked with took at least two weeks to even begin to understand my musicality, and none of them could keep up with me. Tika, on the other hand, is so in tune with my posterior that he can anticipate how it will interpret any given measure of music... even when I try to surprise him with a new movement, a new way of doing a movement, or by altering the timing of my moves. It's like he shares a brain with my butt or something.

All this time, you probably thought it was the other way around. You probably thought the drummer calls the shots, and the belly dancer slavishly follows. This is how it works outside of Egypt, but inside Egypt, it's the opposite. The dancer decides where to add shimmies, accents, and pops, and the 

drummer follows her lead. Basically, he's her bitch. 
Artistically speaking.

Of Men and Belly Dance

I'm going to share something personal, and perhaps a bit controversial. But you're already used to that from me. Belly dancers, be VERY careful who you fall in love with. Make sure they are sane, balanced, confident , and don't have a controlling, violent, or vindictive streak. Especially if they are from the region, even more so if they have ties to your line of work. Multiply that by ten if you're going for the big cheese, i.e. working in Cairo and/or the international workshop circuit.

As I was trying to fall asleep last night (this morning actually), it occurred to me that two of my former love interests had been sabotaging my career at the same time. One has fucked off, and the other recently passed away, but I am still feeling the effects of it today. While my ex was busy getting me uninvited to festivals around the world as payback for terminating our tumultuous relationship, my significant other, who was acting as my manager and whom I trusted completely (not to mention with whom I was madly in love), stunted my career in Cairo. He rejected many opportunities and powerful allies because he feared I would leave him for a movie producer or a high powered agent ( big opportunist slut that I am).

My Foray into the Cabaret - Part 1

A strange thing happened in my dance career recently. The Nile cruise I'm contracted with now moonlights as a cabaret. It operates its regular tourism sails in the early evening, and then remains docked for the rest of the night as patrons from the Gulf come to do everything that's forbidden in their countries. They dance, drink, smoke, and pick up strange women, sometimes until ten in the morning. They check their 'harameters' at the door, and give their reputations the night off-- the cabaret is a no shame zone. It is one of the few places in the Muslim world where a person can let loose without fear of being judged.

I've never been comfortable dancing in this type of environment. Cabarets are dens of vice, and serve as outlets for large scale sexual repression. The potential for objectifying, if not compromising situations, is real. There is rarely any security at these places, which means that should something go wrong, a dancer's only recourse is a brave musician shoving himself between her and the offending customer. Her first line of defense is her singer, because he's already on stage with her. But sometimes it takes a few musicians to get the job done. They form a circle around the dancer, the way we imagine dolphins do when protecting humans from sharks, and pound their drums extra hard to ward off the offender(s). It's actually quite funny to watch, unless you're the dancer experiencing it. The fact that these people are paying for you to entertain them means you can't react the way you would if someone tried to grab your ass on the street. You can't scream or curse at them, and you definitely can't clobber them over the head. You have to somehow keep a smile on your face, pretend that you're oblivious to what's happening, and wait for your musicians to keep your ass from falling into some drunk patron's hands. At three in the morning. In the meantime, you hope the bastard will shower you with tips. Fives, twenties, hundreds, whatever. Egyptian pounds, riyals, dollars. This is how you keep your job. It's not that you're entitled to a percentage of the tips, but that the venue won't ask you to come back unless customers throw money at you.

My Foray into the Cabaret Part 2

The single most important person in this production is my singer. His voice, charisma, and knack for getting customers to throw money keep us in demand every night. More than my quivering belly. I attribute this to the fact that Arabic speakers are more auditorily oriented. It's probably because of the long-standing oral traditions of Arab and Muslim societies, and because of the hangups some Muslim societies have had over visual representation. Add to that a sprinkling of disdain for the uncovered female figure, and you have an audience that is much more receptive to a male singer than a belly dancer. This is why he makes the big bucks. He's not just a singer. He's an emcee, a server, my body guard, a psychologist, and a smooth talker all rolled into one. His job is to 'read' the sala during the performance before ours to learn where the customers are from, and to observe their tipping habits. Then he compiles a mental playlist of songs to which they're most likely to respond. During the show, he waits tables, taking requests for songs and shout outs, and warming up to the customers with friendly greetings and banter. This takes a lot of energy and experience, and an excellent memory; a successful cabaret singer must have hundreds of songs from all over the Arab world memorized, as he might perform for the same customers for weeks on end. Khaligi and mawwals are very important, the latter more so because it's when the most tips are thrown.

Mawwals are real money makers. Especially the ones that are spoken more than sung. They have a story-telling feel that can transfix an entire audience, and they are always about issues to which everyone can relate. Misery, pain, betrayal, heartache... Just the other night, my singer sang something to the effect of: "Your best friend is your money. If you don't have it, people step all over you. But when you have it, everyone greets you with hugs and kisses.' It was much longer than that, and it sounds better in Arabic. But the diction and passion with which he delivered this mawwal made everyone stop what they were doing. Myself included. For the two minutes that this lasted, people were nodding in agreement. Some had smirks of admiration for my singer's ingenuity; nearly all threw money on him when he finished. I remember being amazed not only by his skill, but by the power he held over us. It was as though he transformed the sala into a kindergarten classroom during story telling, or better yet, into a church, with an enthusiastic congregation lapping up the preacher's every word.

My Foray into the Cabaret - Part 3

The biggest factor in my ability to loosen up was my singer. With him in the driver's seat, I was able to relax knowing that if anything went wrong, he would be the one in the line of fire. Half of my musicians could show up mid-gig, or they could be killing each other behind me, and I could just let them carry on, because for this one hour that we're together, it's not my circus. I've learned to thrive in this informal performing environment because it frees me to do more important things. Like shaking hands with customers as they take their seats, making small talk, goofing around with the riklam, and being downright silly. Basically, I get to indulge my inner teenager. Speaking of which, I even have a crush. On my singer. You've probably figured that out by now.

Wael is the definition of fine. He's tall, dark, handsome, has excellent stage presence, and he serenades me on stage. He also smells like laundry detergent. I think the regulars-- the riklam, the staff, and the musicians-- have noticed our chemistry. They stare at us every time he comes near me and we slip into an impromptu duet. He sings to me, and I wiggle about in approval with a huge smile and batting eyelashes. Kind of like Farid El-Atrash and Samia Gamal... not that I'm comparing ourselves to them artistically. We do have a similar on-stage chemistry, though. And we quite like it, even though it annoys the band. When things get too scandalous for their prudish sensibilities, my percussionists express their collective disapproval by interrupting the prevailing rhythm with a doom, tak tak tak tak, doom tak tak!, the famous zaffa rhythm played at weddings when the bride and groom enter and exit the wedding hall. It's meant to be sarcastic, and to embarrass us. Neither of us care, though. We have no blood, as the Egyptians would say, referring to our apparent inability to feel ashamed.

A Half Hour in Hell

The irony of a bright red sun setting so serenely as all hell breaks loose underground. People clamor for their lives, but the sun doesn't care. It sinks into the Nile with a nonchalance that budges for nothing and no one. 

I happened to be in the Attaba metro station this evening, on my way to work from a modeling shoot when the escalators gave out. Thankfully I was not on one of them. It was just my luck, as I decided that climbing six long flights of stairs was preferable to being sandwiched between a sea of men and teenage boys on the escalator. Good call, because then THIS happened. There was an electrical failure, and the four escalators going in both directions stopped abruptly. Some people fell as others were squished, and many were badly injured. Mass panic ensued. People were screaming and crying and jumping over each other to escape. Others were trying to capture the magnitude of the crowd with their camera phones-- there were already thousands of us without each arriving train replenishing the stock. 

Birth Control, Secularism, and the Belly Dance 'Revival'

In Egypt, belly dancers are hired for as many reasons as there are people. Some are hired for their looks. Others for their locks. Some are more affordable, while others confer status on those doing the hiring. And then there are dancers who are chosen for their personality, or because of their connections, or even their status. What we all have in common though, is that we are rarely sought out for our dancing. Even the best of us. Nevertheless, we all cultivate an audience-- a loyal set of fans that follow (and sometimes stalk) us around as we perform in hotels, weddings, and boats around the city. Amie Sultan, a newer, foreign-born Egyptian dancer and the subject of"Amie Sultan: Reviving the Art of Belly Dancing in Egypt", is no different. She, like the rest of us, has carved a niche for herself in the super competitive world of Egyptian belly dancing. No more, no less.

I'm stating the obvious here because somebody has to...because Amie makes a bold if dubious claim about her impact on the dance scene. She says: “Now I’m seeing belly dancers trying to become more elegant and trying to lose weight and, you know, tone it down a bit. People want something more refined, more studied. People want the art of it, not the tattooed eyebrows. I think because of me there’s less vulgarity.” While I'm no fan of tattooed eyebrows, I do believe that Amie is overstating her impact. Just a bit. It's not that Amie is changing the way dancers are approaching the dance or Egyptians' tastes-- in fact her influence is mostly limited to a rather closed circle -- it's that she's found her audience in a certain sector of Egyptian society that's already had those tastes. The Cairo 'posh.' The 3%. The self-serving elite and nouveau riche who prefer English to Arabic, whiskey to hasheesh, and who uncoincidently situate themselves away from the lumpen. I'm not rich-shaming, by the way. Just laying down the facts. Amie is part of and thus appeals to this sector of the society. More power to her. But let's not buy into the hype about her single-handedly changing dancers and audiences' preferences.