From Orientalism to Activism: Belly Dance, Cultural Appropriation, and the Palestinian Struggle
by Katya Faris, MA, MA
For decades, the American belly dance community—or more accurately, the raqs sharqi and folk dance community—has grappled with its relationship to the cultures that birthed this art form. As a retired dancer now working with Arab musicians in music and cultural preservation, I’ve watched a sharp divide emerge over the past two years, particularly since Israel’s genocide in Gaza began. There are those who recognize their role as cultural ambassadors, using their platforms to stand with the Arab world, and those who remain silent or, worse, actively dismiss the political realities of the people whose traditions they profit from. This isn’t just about dance—it’s about power, representation, and who gets to tell the story of an art form rooted in Arab, Turkish, and North African heritage.
A Dancer’s Journey: From the Golden Era to a Crossroads
I first fell in love with this dance in 1989, fresh off a month-long Classical Mythology course in Greece. My sister, who had lived in Iran for 15 years, had gifted me jewelry that seemed to whisper stories of another world—intricate, shimmering, alive with history. Little did I know then that my own blood carried traces of Romany, Turkish, Italian, Greek, and Lebanese ancestry, a revelation that came decades later through DNA testing. Perhaps that’s why this art form gripped me so deeply; it wasn’t just fascination—it was a kind of remembering.
I entered the dance world during the golden age of Egyptian-style raqs sharqi in the West, a time when respect for cultural roots still anchored the art form. The 1970s had been dominated by Turkish-American influences, but by the late ’80s and early ’90s, the emphasis had shifted to Egyptian technique, folklore, and musicality. I was fortunate—my first teacher was an Arab musician and singer, so I learned not just steps, but the soul behind them: how a saidi rhythm should feel, why a certain taqsim demanded stillness, the stories behind the songs. I was so enthralled, that I decided to get my masters degree in ethnomusicology at Indiana University, Bloomington, so that I could help us to gain more respect. I graduated in December 2012. You can find my thesis here: Katya Faris Masters Thesis.
Then came the 1990s, and with them, the rise of American Tribal Style (ATS). At first, it felt like a creative renaissance, but over time, I watched as the dance became untethered from its origins. Fusion turned into confusion, a free-for-all appropriation, with sacred symbols, movements, and costumes mashed together into something unrecognizable—aesthetic collage without context. The Bellydance Superstars era amplified this, sparking debates about white performers profiting from a romanticized, colonialist vision of “the Orient.” The conversation about cultural theft grew louder, but so did the defensiveness.
Then came 9/11. I was actually in my Arab language class when the first tower was hit. Overnight, Arab communities faced horrific backlash, and those of us who danced this art form were abruptly reminded of our responsibility. I was bellydancing at the time at a Camel Cigarettes tent at the then Deer Creek Amphitheatre in Noblesville, Indiana, and overnight lost my job, as they couldn’t guarantee my safety. We weren’t just entertainers; we were ambassadors, tasked with countering racism through our performances. Habibi Magazine, a vital link to the dance’s roots, went out of print not long after, and with it, a guiding light dimmed.
Now, in 2025, after a pandemic that shattered live performance and a genocide in Gaza that has left the Arab world—and those who love its cultures—reeling, we’re standing in the wreckage, trying to rebuild. In Cairo and the UAE, raqs sharqi still thrives at weddings and cabarets, but in Detroit, where I spent the later years of my career, the scene has nearly vanished. Most Arab families now book Lebanese dabke troupes for celebrations, preferring the communal joy of line dancing over the orientalist stigma still attached to solo “bellydancers.” LA, NYC, Chicago, and Miami still have vibrant communities, but in my city, the stages have gone mostly quiet for raqs sharqi performers.
Yet even now, even though I’m retired and focusing on recording Arab music, I believe in this dance. Not as a fossilized relic, but as a living tradition that demands we evolve—with ethics, with solidarity, and with the understanding that art is never separate from the people who created it. The future of raqs sharqi in the West depends on whether we’re willing to listen more than we perform, to give back more than we take, and to stand unflinching when the cultures we cherish are under siege.
The Ghost of Orientalism in Raqs Sharqi
Western belly dance has always been tangled up in Orientalist fantasy—think veiled harem girls, exoticized mysticism, and a deliberate erasure of the dance’s working-class and folk origins. Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978) exposed how the West reduces Arab cultures to decorative, apolitical aesthetics, and belly dance has not been immune. Many dancers today still perform in costumes dripping with colonial nostalgia (bedlahs styled after 1920s Hollywood harems, “tribal” fusion that borrows from Indigenous cultures without context) while claiming their art is “just for fun.” But dance is never neutral. When we detach raqs sharqi from its roots—especially now, as the people who created it are being slaughtered in Gaza—we become complicit in their erasure.
Solidarity Beyond Borders: Why Raqs Sharqi Dancers Must Stand with Palestine
While raqs sharqi as we know it today is rooted primarily in Egyptian, Lebanese, Syrian, and Turkish traditions—not Palestinian folk dance—that doesn’t absolve the global dance community from standing firmly with Palestine. Arab identity is interconnected, and oppression against one is an affront to all. Just as we wouldn’t separate Mexican folklorico from the struggles of Guatemalan migrants, or West African dance from the fight against neo-colonialism, we cannot divorce raqs sharqi from the broader Arab experience—especially in this moment of genocide.
Why This Matters for Dancers
- Cultural Kinship Across Borders
- The same rhythms that fuel Egyptian baladi (like maqsoum and saidi) echo through Palestinian dabke. The emotional phrasing in Umm Kulthum’s music resonates just as deeply in the voices of Palestinian singers like Reem Kelani. These artistic threads bind Arab cultures together, even when the dances differ.
- When Egypt or Lebanon face hardship, the Arab dance community mourns collectively. Why should Palestine be excluded from that solidarity?
- The Hypocrisy of Selective Advocacy
- Many dancers proudly celebrate Lebanese resilience during its civil war or Syrian creativity amid displacement—but fall silent on Palestine, fearing controversy. But true cultural respect means standing with all Arab people, not just the ones deemed “safe” to support.
- Dance as a Tool of Resistance
- From Algerian dancers preserving traditions during French occupation to Iraqi artists rebuilding after war, Arab dance has always been intertwined with survival. Palestinian performers today use dabke and song as acts of defiance. By aligning with them, raqs sharqi dancers honor this legacy of art-as-resistance.
What Solidarity Looks Like
- Amplify Palestinian Artists: Share their work, cite their contributions to Arab dance heritage, and reject the erasure of their culture.
- Don’t “Both-Sides” Genocide: There’s no neutrality when one side has tanks and the other has rubble. If your “love of Arab culture” doesn’t extend to condemning its destruction, examine why.
- Follow Arab Leaders: If Palestinian, Syrian, and Egyptian dancers are calling for boycotts or fundraisers, join them—don’t speak over them.
The Bottom Line
You don’t have to perform Palestinian dabke to stand with Palestine. But if you profit from any Arab dance while ignoring the genocide against Arab people, you’re perpetuating the same Orientalist fantasy that treats our cultures as decoration, not living, bleeding humanity. Raqs sharqi is joy, artistry, and resistance. Let it be those things fully—without borders.
Cultural Appropriation vs. Ethical Exchange
The split in the dance community today mirrors a larger ethical question: Are we engaging in cultural exchange or cultural theft? Dancers who care about justice are doing the work—learning the histories of the movements they teach, collaborating with Arab artists, boycotting Israeli-linked events, and doing fundraising for Gaza. They understand that to love this dance means to stand with its people, especially in times of crisis.
But then there are those who insist on “staying out of politics.” They’ll perform to Israeli-label music, teach workshops without crediting Arab sources, and dismiss calls for solidarity as “divisive.” This isn’t neutrality—it’s privilege. Arab dancers don’t have the luxury of ignoring genocide, especially as Islamophobia surges globally (look no further than the racist backlash to Mamdani’s NYC mayoral candidacy). When non-Arab dancers refuse to take a stand, they’re choosing comfort over justice.
Music Matters: The Soundtrack to Complicity
Ethnomusicology teaches us that music is political. Every time a dancer uses a song by an artist who supports Israel (knowingly or not), they’re sending a message. Palestinian artists like Mohammad Assaf or Lebanese legends like Fairuz—whose music carries decades of resistance—are pushed aside in favor of “exotic” beats stripped of meaning. Meanwhile, Israeli-label musicians profit from the same culture their government is destroying. If we claim to respect this art form, we must be intentional about whose voices we amplify.
Who Gets to Dance? Respect, Responsibility, and the Right to Engage
There’s a heated debate in the raqs sharqi and folk dance community: Should non-Arabs be allowed to perform these dances at all? Some argue that these art forms belong exclusively to Arab people—that outsiders, especially white Westerners, have no right to them. And given the long history of colonialism, exploitation, and cultural theft, that anger is justified. But I believe the answer isn’t exclusion—it’s ethical engagement.
Why Non-Arabs Can Dance—But Must Earn the Right
These dances are not just steps and songs; they are living traditions, carrying the joys, sorrows, and resistance of generations. To gatekeep them entirely would mean silencing their universal power—the way a dabke line can evoke collective strength, or how a melancholic muwashahat can express grief beyond language. Art is human, and human stories are meant to be shared.
But here’s the crucial part: Sharing doesn’t mean taking. If you’re a non-Arab dancer, your role isn’t to “own” or “improve” these traditions—it’s to honor, amplify, and give back. That means:
- Doing the homework. Learn the history behind the dance. Know which rhythms come from marginalized communities (like the Romani influences in Ghawazee styles). Understand why many Arabs are wary of white performers—especially when their culture is being erased in real time.
- Centering Arab voices. If you teach, invite Arab artists as guests. If you perform, credit your sources. If you profit, donate to causes that support the cultures you’re borrowing from.
- Using privilege wisely. Yes, white dancers face less stigma for performing raqs sharqi than Arab women do. That’s privilege. Use it to challenge stereotypes, not reinforce them.
The Hard Truth: Some Will Never Accept You—And That’s Okay
After centuries of exploitation, some Arabs understandably don’t trust white dancers. No amount of “but I love your culture!” will change that. And that’s their right. Your job isn’t to demand their approval—it’s to show up with humility, accept criticism, and keep doing the work anyway.
If you truly love this dance, prove it. Stand with Palestine. Reject Orientalism. Pay Arab artists. And remember: You are a guest in this art form. Act like one.
Who Decides What’s “Appropriate”? The Hypocrisy of Western Gatekeeping
Recently, two Egyptian dancers in Cairo sparked online outrage—not from conservative audiences, but from Western bellydancers who accused them of wearing costumes that were “too risqué” and “not representative of true raqs sharqi.” The irony was staggering: white performers, who’ve built careers on a sanitized, Orientalist fantasy of Arab dance, were now policing actual Egyptian women on how to perform their own culture.
This incident reveals a painful double standard:
- Western dancers often demand that Arab performers conform to a romanticized, “respectable” version of their dance—one that aligns with colonial nostalgia (think: modest harem fantasies, not the vibrant reality of Cairo’s cabarets).
- Arab dancers, meanwhile, use costuming and movement as silent resistance—against patriarchy, against Western respectability politics, and against the idea that their art must cater to outsiders’ comfort. A daring cut-out or a bold stage presence isn’t just “sexy”; it’s a reclamation of autonomy in a world that tries to control Arab women’s bodies.
The Nuance Everyone Missed
- Arabs Don’t Need Saving—Least of All from White Dancers
When Westerners scold Egyptian performers for being “too revealing,” they echo the same colonial logic used to justify invading Arab countries (“we must liberate their women!”). Real solidarity means listening, not lecturing. - Raqs Sharqi Isn’t a Museum Piece
This dance has always evolved—from street celebrations to royal courts to Cairo’s nightclubs. Who gets to define its “authenticity”? The people living it, not outsiders fossilizing it as “exotic tradition.” - The Real Issue: Who Holds Power?
White dancers face no consequences for wearing bedlahs with misused religious symbols. Arab dancers, meanwhile, risk backlash for the same costumes—from both conservative societies and Western “allies.” That’s not cultural preservation; it’s imperialism with a veneer of wokeness.
A Rule for Non-Arab Dancers
Before you criticize an Arab artist, ask:
- Is my outrage about ethics—or about my own romanticized vision of their culture?
- Would I dare police a French cabaret dancer’s outfit? If not, why target Arabs?
The answer is usually uncomfortable. Sit with it.
The Gendered Lens: Raqs Sharqi, Femininity, and the Political Weight of the Arab Woman’s Image
Unlike salsa, bachata, or other partnered Latin dances that frame movement as a dialogue between masculine and feminine energies, raqs sharqi has historically been a solo dance, centered on the female body—not as an object of desire, but as an expression of resilience, joy, and cultural identity. While male dancers exist (and deserve respect), the dance’s global perception is undeniably tied to the image of the Arab woman: graceful, powerful, and deeply misunderstood.
This makes the stakes of representation even higher. Orientalist fantasies have long distorted the Arab woman into two extremes: the eroticized “harem girl” or the oppressed “veiled victim.” Both erase her humanity. Now, as we witness Palestinian mothers mourning their children on camera—women who’ve been dehumanized as “terrorists” or statistics—the dance community must actively reject these stereotypes. When we perform raqs sharqi, we are invoking the same women Western media paints as either exotic or threatening.
Why This Moment Demands Sensitivity–The Weaponization of Arab Femininity
- The same governments bombing Gaza justify violence by claiming to “save Arab women” from their own culture (a colonial trope dating back to British occupation). Dancers who lean into hypersexualized or passive stereotypes unknowingly reinforce this narrative.
- Contrast this with the real women of Palestine: journalists like Bisan Owda, poets like Hiba Abu Nada (murdered in Gaza), or mothers staging sit-ins for their disappeared loved ones. Their strength is the antithesis of Orientalist clichés.
The Solo Dancer as a Symbol of Resistance
- Raqs sharqi is a dance of autonomy—a woman’s body moving for itself, not in response to a partner’s lead. This independence makes it a powerful act of reclamation, yet too often, Western dancers reduce it to mere spectacle, chasing “sexiness” over substance. They miss the stories woven into the music: the defiance in Umm Kulthum’s “Enta Omri,” the sorrow in Palestinian folk melodies, the unspoken history in every hip drop and undulation.
- Yes, glamour plays a role in professional raqs sharqi—Cairo’s cabaret stars shimmer in sequins for a reason—but context is everything. Speak with dancers working in Cairo, Dubai, or Abu Dhabi, and you’ll realize their artistry runs far deeper than surface-level allure. Every costume choice, every gesture carries meaning: a tribute to a lost homeland, a quiet rebellion against respectability politics, a celebration of resilience. This dance was never just about “looking hot.” It’s about being seen—fully, unapologetically, on their own terms.
What Ethical Performance Looks Like Now
- Costuming matters. Ditch the “harem fantasy” getups, or the “tribal” confusion. Work with a costume designer from Cairo, Istanbul or Beirut instead. If you wear a Palestinian thobe embroidery motif for a dabke performance, know its origins.
- Choreography as testimony. Dedicate performances to Gaza’s martyred artists. Use your stage to share their names. Donate to the Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund with some of your earnings. Work with an Egyptian or Lebanese choreographer, and learn why they make the choreographic choices they do.
- Amplify Arab voices. Before teaching a “classic Egyptian style” combo, ask: Would an Egyptian dancer recognize this? If not, interrogate why.
A Question for Every Dancer
When you step onto the floor, who are you embodying? A caricature crafted by colonialism—or the living, grieving, triumphant women of the Arab world? The mothers of Gaza don’t have the privilege of being seen as human in Western media. But in our dance spaces, we can insist on their humanity.
A Call to Action for the Dance Community
The path forward is clear:
- Boycott complicity. Avoid festivals, music, and events tied to Israeli normalization. Support BDS.
- Credit and compensate. If you’re teaching a “Turkish Romani” or ” Egyptian Saidi” style, name its origins—and pay Arab artists when you use their work. In fact, hire some Arab musicians to produce some music for you. I can help you with that.
- Use your platform. Fundraise for Gaza, share Palestinian stories, and challenge Islamophobia in dance spaces.
Silence is not an option. The belly dance world has a choice: keep playing dress-up with someone else’s culture, or stand in solidarity with the people who gave us this art. As dancers, we’re storytellers. What story will we tell now?
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- Said, Edward. Orientalism. 1978.
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- Shay, Anthony. Choreophobia. Mazda Publishers. Costa Mesa, CA. 1999.
- Dancing Across Borders. 2005.
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