An Intimate Portrait of Mahmoud Reda
We´re on the highway, between Cairo and Alexandria, and Abdel Wahab is playing on the radio.
There´s light - a light you only find in Egypt, attached to a scent of past and hope - peaking through my window in the backseat of the car. A soul-comforting light; one of the reasons why I lived and worked in Egypt for almost a decade of my life; a return home.
There's me, Mahmoud Reda, and his wife, in the car.
I´m singing along, using my best Arabic, with Abdel Wahab.
The song is "Min kher leh" (“Without asking why”), one of Mahmoud´s favourite songs, and one I learned how to love with him.
- Even at the height of my agony, I love you. / Hata fe aiz aa´zebi bahebak.
- Do you know why? / Aarif leh?
- Without a reason why / Min kher leh.
- Without a reason why, I love you. / Min gher leh, ya habibi, bahebak.
Mahmoud is unusually silent; introspective; and happy.
From the rearview mirror, I see a new expression of peace in his eyes, as if he saying: my job is done, here.
Troupes from all over the world, in collaboration with the Egyptian Government and a few Egyptian dancers, mostly male dancers, have put together an homage in the shape of a professional show celebrating Mahmoud Reda´s most iconic choreographies.
The event is taking place that afternoon at the theater of the mythical Alexandria Library. A huge production celebrating a huge personality.
It´s a big deal although he doesn't make it feel like it.
As soon as "Min Kher Leh" is over, we go back to joking in the car, sharing trivia, commenting on the beautiful weather, what we´ll find once we arrive in Alexandria; discussing the flaws and qualities of the (in)famous of Abou Kir, a beach in Alexandria famous for its "baladi" crowd and for the fish, consumed fresh out of the sea, served on plastic tables disposed on the sand.
I´m a “baladi” girl who loves “baladi” places, so I have stories to tell about “Abou Kir” beach. Mahmoud revels in those stories. He shrieks with joy as I share my real-life tales.
From visiting it with a crazy ex-boyfriend who always knew the best spots for seafood to the time when me and my family spent time on that beach. A visit that started with my mum, braless (by mistake) on the water - courtesy of a wave that ripped her bra off without her noticing it - , sexually harassed by half the male population on the beach; and ended with a cinematographic line of strangers asking me to take photos with them and their children for no apparent reason.
- Then, my mother told the men to sod off and asked them if they´d never seen a woman before. - I narrated the episode, clarifying how it all came to an end.
- Your mum is "baladi" like you, ya Joana. - Mahmoud added, amused, proud of my provenience. - Did she threaten them with her "sheeb sheeb"(Egyptian word for flip flops)?
We laughed. And laughed. The road kept passing us by.
- The "baladi" places are the best. And the "baladi" people, too. - Mahmoud concluded.
We made a stop (bathroom; coffee; stretching our legs).
Turkish coffee for the three of us. A bag of cookies. And the usual interaction between Mahmoud and the people he worked for his entire life: Egyptians.
The waiters in the coffee shop recognized Mahmoud and congratulated him; asked for a photo; mentioned the names of his movies. Mahmoud nodded, threw a naughty joke at them - a joke they didn´t see coming -, and thanked them for their kindness.
- People are so sweet. How can I not love them? - He says, an echo of many other times when he reminded me of the beauty in the world.
The news of this international homage came in the papers.
They´re also announced on Egyptian television.
The previous week, Mahmoud received journalists at his "Kasr el Nile" studio.
I crossed paths with these journalists, day in and day out, and noticed the unusual luggage they brought along with them: a mix of protocol - they´re meant to honor Mahmoud Reda and his career - and deep, personal respect.
Respect for a Dancer. Not any dancer, it´s true. Still, a dancer. Something you usually don´t see in Egypt.
They asked him about the old and the current "Reda Troupe", what he thinks about the current state of “Raks el Sharki” and Folklore; how he feels about this homage, if he likes to work with foreign dancers, and his plans for the future.
Well into his 80's, Mahmoud is excited for the future. That's where his focus is.
- As long as I can dance, I´ll thrive. May God preserve my health. - Mahmoud tells the journalists, unaccustomed to simplicity.
They wish him good health and leave after taking photos of the studio and of Mahmoud sitting, awkwardly, on the sofa of the studio´s living room.
I can tell he's touched, emotionally, but he tries to hide it. Unless I ask him, face to face, when we´re alone, if he's happy with this initiative, he'll act like it's just another day at the office.
In those moments, when he lets go of control and allows himself to melt into the safety net we've built between us, I see tears in his eyes. And in those tears, a lifetime of dedication to dance - an unparalleled passion for dance.
It's endearing; my heart is full with his joy.
In a world full of injustices and vanity fairs, where fake idols are celebrated and accolades are bought with dirty cash, it´s soul-healing to witness this well-deserved recognition.
Then, there's a blank in my memory. From our pit stop, it jumps directly into the theater of the Library of Alexandria where we were received by a huge crowd of common Egyptians, dancers who've come to watch the show, reporters, television cameras, and dignitaries from the Government.
He was shy and excited, a child in the playground.
We´re followed from the car to the theater and, once we´re inside, he's surrounded by camera flashes, lights, and questions from different reporters. I'm by his side, happy for him but also protective, afraid someone will hurt him, disrespect him, cross a line. I want that day to be perfect - for him, for everything he represents.
In the midst of the chaos, he gets even closer to me and whispers in my ear:
- “Ya nakher assiut” (Oh, my bad luck). My bladder. I have to pee.
- Now? - I ask him, about to be smothered by the crowd that´s surrounding us, getting tighter and tighter; and louder.
- Not now; yesterday. Otherwise, I'll wet my pants in front of all these people.
We laughed, as we always did in our bubble, imagining the scene: Mahmoud, the honored figure of the evening, condecorated by Presidents, wetting his pants in front of everyone.
- Imagine the headlines in the newspapers: Mahmoud Reda wets his pants in front of a crowd at the Library of Alexandria. - He continued, making me laugh even harder.
We had that in common: sense of humor, being the jokers, the naughty voices in the party, the ones who clap in the middle of the silence. Then, he got serious.
- I mean it. I have to pee, urgently. - He added, half-crying; his head browsing the space, searching for a toilet´s sign.
Mahmoud continued to search for salvation - his head peeking above an ocean of people, his desperate eyes behind diplomatic words - while the room became increasingly busier.
His face spoke.
First, there was a biological need that needed to be addressed; second, there was Mahmoud´s generosity and appreciation towards the ones who appreciated him.
He was in no man's land, stuck between the imminent shame of peeing himself in public - at an historical site such as the Library of Alexandria, no less - or checking into the nearest bathroom, leaving the world behind, microphones hanging in the air, crashing the illusion that geniuses aren't common mortals; disappointing everyone.
New groups of reporters that had been in the background, waiting for their turn, rushed towards him, kicking and elbowing everyone they found on their path. Like Napoleon's army invading Egypt, they, too, unaware of his private affliction, jumped on him with newly charged lights, cameras, questions. And faith.
I observed the scene and asked someone where the bathroom was. With the golden information on my hands, I managed to point the direction of the bathroom, nodding towards it, making him understand I´d found the path to Paradise.
No luck, though.
The more he tried to free himself from the web that was binding him, the more enthralled he became.
Suddenly, and with the calm assertiveness of a Buddhist monk, Mahmoud requested a microphone from a theater technician.
- Is it on? - He asked the man, knocking on the microphone with his fingers, checking if it was working.
- It is, “ya basha” (“it is, oh pacha/boss”).
Then, Mahmoud declared to the entire theater:
- Guys, I have a problem and I need your collaboration. I have to pee, urgently, and I promise to come back to you and offer you my attention after that. If I don´t go to the bathroom now, I'll wet my pants in front of all of you. It´s not going to be a nice view.
There was a short pause. Then, he continued:
- You can either give me the space and the time to pee or, if you wish, you can join me in the bathroom. I´m ok with both options. Yallah, let's go together! - He declared with his arms shaking in the direction of the bathroom.
For a second, there was absolute silence in the theater. Open mouths, everywhere, and startled eyes. You couldn't hear a fly.
Then, my laughter. Only my laughter, loud and uncontrollable - a rock in the pond; a thunder in the midst of a quiet night.
Was Mahmoud Reda, the Legend of Egyptian Dance, inviting everyone to join him in the bathroom?
For real? Why would he do that? Had he lost his mind?
People were confused.
I kept laughing my heart out because I knew him, his irony, and naughty sense of humor.
I also knew that people took him seriously but he didn't take himself seriously. Or life, for that matter.
While pseudo-artists and divas protected their egos at all costs, Mahmoud, an extraordinary artist and a doer with a career that had already changed the History of Egyptian Dance, couldn't care less about his prestige. He mocked the concept of prestige because he knew what a legacy is made of.
You can be simple - just the human being that you are -, especially when what you do is extraordinary.
He was simple. And extraordinary.
Still confused, unsure if he was serious or joking, people started to open space, allowing him to move.
An employee from the theater took Mahmoud by the arm and followed him into the bathroom (someone accepted his invitation, after all). I kept laughing by myself and adoring him even more.
This was Mahmoud.
He took his dance seriously, more seriously than anyone I've ever met, but he didn't take himself seriously. He was just a person - as magnificent and fallible as everybody else - and he was aware of it.
His self-confidence was of the truest kind: one that comes from excellence, self-respect, character and kindness. He had no need for arrogance; and held a deep need for connection. So, he connected.
The show was wonderful but I have to confess: what I remember the most from that trip was the moment Mahmoud announced he had to pee and invited everyone to join him in the bathroom.
This was his essence. His charm. And wisdom.
Take what you love, seriously; take your dance, commitments, relationships, and responsibilities seriously.
No need to take yourself seriously, though.
We´re all human, fragile, made of dust; we´re ridiculous and miraculous; animals who need to pee, creators of the unexpected; a manifestation of the Divine.
If you wish to continue your reading, diving deeper into the wisdom and grace of Mahmoud Reda, the Father of Egyptian Folklore and the creator of the iconic "Reda Troupe", check my upcoming
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[ An intimate portrait of Mahmoud Reda, the artist, the teacher, and the man ]
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In this Ebook, you´ll learn about the dance and life lessons I´ve learned from Mahmoud Reda, the Father of Egyptian Folklore, during my years of work and life in Egypt.
I reveal the backstage of the Reda World, as I experienced it, and the legacy Mahmoud Reda left behind - a legacy of art, vision, mission, and love.
The Ebook is accompanied by a Bonus Masterclass where you´ll learn a short and fully-packed "Reda Style" Choreography with tips on how to use this style in your own dance and in your own way.
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