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Description
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Begun in the mid-1970's , the early sections of "Sirat Al-Ghawazi" were first published under the title "The Mystery of the Ghawazi" in Habibi Magazine. The author, orientalist Edwina Nearing (writing under the nom de guerre "Qamar el-Mulouk"), intended the series to be an investigative report on what Lady Duff Gordon in 1865 called "the real dancing girls of Egypt." Now, in the decades since Nearing's Ghawazi series first appeared, it has itself become a part of history, its people, places and events almost as exotic and remote as those described in the 19th century works the author drew upon for background information. "The Mystery of the Ghawazi" was reprinted in 1984 by popular demand and updated in a 1993 article, "Ghawazi on the Edge of Extinction." Since then, most of Nearing's Ghawazi material has been out of print. Gilded Serpent is happy to be able to respond to the continued demand for these articles by making them available to our readers worldwide. Part 8 - 1976 I continued my
interview with Yusuf Mazin, patriarch of Upper
Egypt's premiere Ghawazi dance ensemble, the Banat Mazin,
and his eldest daughter Su'ad and youngest daughter
Khairiyya, members of the ensemble, in their
comfortable but unpretentious two-storey house in Dandara Street
on the edge of Luxor. Had the Mazins introduced any innovations
into their performances, I asked; had they changed anything at
all within memory? I wondered whether modifications had occurred
over the years which might account for some of the discrepancies
which seemed to exist among the descriptions and representations
I had encountered of Ghawazi dancing, some of which conveyed a
quite different picture from the one I had received among the
Mazins.
When I mentioned old photographs of Ghawazi dancers in long skirts of what looked like velveteen or satin, Yusuf said that there were Ghawazi who still wore this antique garb. He and Su'ad were also familiar with the long gowns of tull bi-telli, net worked with flattened metal knots, often associated with the Ghawazi in the Egyptian popular imagination. These they described as black with silver- or gold-colored metal, with long, wide sleeves; open down the front nearly to the waist, and long enough to cover the feet. Gowns of tull bi-telli had been unobtainable for a long time, however. Although Yusuf
mentioned only one innovation, I quickly learned of others which
he had not specified as such. There was, for instance, the taj
(Arabic for "crown"), the rolled, stuffed and bejeweled crescent
diadem which so artfully set off the face while keeping back the
hair. Su'ad claimed that the taj had been designed by
the Banat Mazin as a substitute for the mandil, the ubiquitous
head covering of the Egyptian village woman, which the ghaziyyas
had formerly worn. The mandil was a light-weight triangular scarf
edged with little pom-poms or beaded crochet-work which, artfully
wrapped and gathered with the ends tied rather forward on the
head, formed a tiara-like silhouette. The Mazins had tired of
washing out their delicate mandils and had hit upon the idea of
the taj to give a similar effect. With these observations on costume and the approach of afternoon siesta time, my all-too-brief visit with the Mazins came to an end. But that was not the last I was to see of Su'ad and Khairiyya. Back at my hotel, a tall, sandy-haired sociology student from Holland who had been present at the morning's entertainment began questioning me about the Ghawazi. His interest, it turned out, was not entirely academic. "I have a problem," he confided, "I think I have fallen in love with the little girl in the red dress." He spoke with a convincing air of resignation and, having already tentatively assessed him as sane, I took him at his word. I explained to him what Yusuf had told me: that among the Ghawazi, if a man had, say, six daughters, three would stay unmarried in their youth so that their troupe might remain intact.
But Khairiyya might, after all, have ideas of her own. Jan seemed a level-headed and sensitive young man and was well situated in his own country; after making certain that he was indeed willing to marry Khairiyya, I agreed to sound her out on the matter. So it was that I returned to the Mazin house the next day. Khairiyya and her father met me outside the door, and I presented them with an article containing some pictures of Ghawazi, the pretext for my visit. I had hoped to speak with Khairiyya alone, but as this had not come about, said something to the effect that, if I might be permitted to introduce a sensitive subject, there was a gentleman who had seen Khairiyya and developed feelings of profound admiration for her. "The American doctor, the one with the beard?" asked Khairiyya, scarcely batting an eyelash. It seemed that such a person had already offered for her. No, said I, and described Jan; but she had not noticed the young student. Well, and would the Mazin family object to a foreigner marrying one of their daughters? "If the foreigners give us of their fair daughters," answered Yusuf graciously, alluding to Egyptians of his acquaintance who had married foreign women, "can we do less?" Jan had learned that the ghaziyyas would be performing that evening for a party of tourists at a hotel across the river and, as we had both arranged to attend, I informed Khairiyya that she would be able to meet her new suitor there.
Without any prelude, they began to dance. Each went her own way about the courtyard, pausing here and there before the various tables to dance before the assembled guests. After fifteen minutes of this walk-about, in style not unlike the freestyle I had seen the previous day except in its superior execution, the ghaziyyas exited. I sat patiently, certain that they would return. When they did, each bore a khazarana, the long defensive staff of Upper Egypt.
This being the case, I asked Khairiyya's aunt, who had perhaps been dancing a generation before Tahia Carioca and must have a wealth of knowledge and experience, whether she had seen many changes in her art. "Yes, many changes," she sighed distantly, but could not or would not specify what. This was the longest sentence she uttered in our acquaintance, and it was not at all clear whether she had understood the drift of the question. She certainly appeared to have weathered many changes, being possibly the most world-weary individual I had ever met; long after, I was still wondering what memories were locked in her mind. The conversation returned to family matters. Su'ad volunteered the information that she was 35 years old and had a teen-age daughter in school. This I could scarcely credit, looking at her youthful, unlined face, slightly fuller than Khairiyya's. An isolated house outside of town had already been pointed out to me as her property. She and Khairiyya had three more sisters, only one of whom was still dancing professionally. In the winter, the tourist season, they danced for tourist groups; in the summer they performed for the local weddings which were customary in that season.
So ended my visit among these far famed, little known people. The figures vanished into the night. I looked about me; the ramshackle buildings of Luxor were picked out, here and there, by the lantern of a tardy fruit peddler bundling up his wares or the light spilling from an open window. Luxor, ancient Thebes . . . here was once the capital city of the Egyptian Empire, over 3,000 years ago. Hither for generations had come the dedicated scholars who spend years of their lives wresting the knowledge and beauty of ancient Egypt from the desert sands and all-consuming maw of time. In former days these men and women had often paid a high price - their health, their personal fortunes, even their lives. In more recent times their task had become somewhat easier; long-term or permanent missions to the area had been established by the world's great museums, universities and learned societies. The archaeological
excavations with their resulting papers and exhibits, the years
of research with their ensuing books, the droves of tourists from
all over the world who visited Luxor every year, all testified
to the continuing fascination with ancient Egyptian art and technology,
society and religion. Yet for all humanity's concern, who now
alive knew what an ancient Egyptian song sounded like? I would go to Syria, and there I would find traces of the Nawara. But the Ghawazi would remain, essentially, as much a mystery as the Sphinx- a mystery that will be solved only if the scholars ask their questions before this people, too, with all their arts and laughter, become one with the desert sands. Listen till you see, then you can judge. - A Song of the Banat Mazin
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Sirat Al-Ghawazi,
Part 1 by Edwina Nearing 11-17-05
Traveling with the Touareg
by Linda Grondahl 10-26-05
Interview
with Mahmoud Reda Part 3: Film & Future by Morocco 10-17-05
How MECDA Began by Feiruz
Aram |
The
Gilded Serpent presents...
Yusuf assured me that the only innovation was in costume and had
been adopted only within the last year, the occasional substitution
of a long, rather form-fitting gown of the type Khairiyya had
worn in performance for me that morning for the traditional skirt
and vest of the Ghawazi dancer. Khairiyya fetched one of the
knee-length georgette skirts with its seven or so horizontal rows
of pailette-tipped bugle-bead fringe. 
The
first stars were coming out as our small party boarded the great
wooden ferry to cross the Nile. The interior was lost in darkness;
not a lantern was lit; but the soft rustle and chink of dancing
costumes revealed the presence of the ghaziyyas on the
same boat. We greeted one another softly, in keeping with the
waitful hush that had fallen over the river with the approach
of night, and I was delighted to see Su'ad with Khairiyya on this
occasion - perhaps I would now have the chance to see some of
the dances of which their father had told me. Arriving at the
opposite shore, we found cars to take us along the rutted track
to the Hotel Marsam, a rambling structure in the picturesque
local style presided over by a cheerful and ubiquitous old gaffer
referred to as "Shaykh 'Ali." This dignitary
was engaged in distributing a largesse of fake mummy beads to
the tourists dining at trestle tables around the perimeter of
the Marsam's courtyard when we entered - the evening's entertainment
was to take place outdoors, like most events in the warm climate
of the Nile Valley. A small orchestra with tabla baladi
and mizmar shawms was already seated at one end. Su'ad
and Khairiyya appeared shortly after in beautifully crafted costumes
of Ghawazi style, Su'ad in turquoise vest and skirt, Khairiyya
in midnight blue, both aglitter with lavish beadwork and spangles,
and crowned with the taj diadems.
The
music quickened and the dancers swung into a gayer mode, shimmying
energetically and twirling their staves like batons, working side
by side, then turning in to each other, one advancing and the
second retreating before her, then the second advancing and the
first retreating; or facing away from each other and leaning backwards
slightly from the waist till their shoulders touched, and maintaining
this position while circling about an imagined axis with side-to-side
shimmies. So sure was their control of this most typical of Ghawazi
movements, the side-to-side shimmy, that when facing each other
their hips would move in the same direction at the same moment,
which meant that one dancer was leading with the left hip while
the other led with the right. 
The
whole performance lasted perhaps five or six minutes. "None of
the old travelogues ever mentioned anything quite like this!"
I thought and, gazing heavenwards, wished that C. B. DeMille
had been on hand with a camera crew to preserve it for viewing
again and again. "What was that dance?" I asked 'Abdu
beside me. "The Raqs al-Shuma," he answered, the shuma
being the heavier fighting stick of the Sa'idis. But when I followed
the ghaziyyas to their room a while later to introduce
Jan to Khairiyya, they told me that this so called "Raqs al-Shuma,"
which I had assumed to be one dance with two parts, a slow prelude
and a longer, fast section, was really two dances back to back:
the Raqs al-Jihayni, and the Nizzawi. Then I laid
aside my own questions to negotiate the delicate subject of Jan's
marriage proposal. One could read little in the faces of Su'ad
and Khairiyya as I broached the matter; they sat silent, and finally
Khairiyya indicated with a few quick words that she could not
accept without the approval of her sister and her aunt, Yusuf's
sister, who had raised them from childhood like a mother after
their own mother died and who still chaperoned them to performances.
At
this point I withdrew so that the sisters might have some time
to rest, for they intended to dance again shortly. Returning
to my table, I found Jan hastily composing a letter of farewell
to Khairiyya. The gracefully written epistle, expressing his
admiration of her character, the joy her dancing and her smile
had brought to him, and his acceptance and understanding of her
decision, was then set down in Arabic so that I might give it
to her before she left that evening, for it would be unseemly
for him, a male, to deliver it himself.
The
ghaziyyas returned to the courtyard and began to dance
freestyle; seeing me, they came over and urged me to join them.
I followed their movements clumsily; one or two, such as a peculiar
shimmy in which a stomp of the right foot sent their full, heavily
beaded skirts flouncing up to one side - quite deliberately -
to reveal a flash of red slip, I could not follow at all. "Watch
the feet!" Watch the feet!" hissed Su'ad, but to no avail. More
than once the ghaziyyas prompted me thus, and I regretted
not being able to remain longer to study the dance with such cheerful,
patient teachers. 
After
this, much of the party dispersed and I again found myself on
the same ferry as Su'ad and Khairiyya. The last time I saw them
was as the boat docked and, night-blind, groped my way over the
side. Soft, chinking sounds of jewelry came from two dark figures
near me, and I caught the words of one to the other, "The poor
thing! Help her . . . she can't see . . ." There was much I
still did not know about the Ghawazi, many points, perhaps, on
which I had been misled or mistaken, but now I felt I knew the
most important part of the answer to the question, "What kind
of people are they?"
Who
could tread the measures of their dances? It was too late, too
late to ask these questions.
