The Maa´lema´s Confidence
Om Mohamed was a regular Egyptian woman.
Or so it seemed.
She wore the "hijab", like a good Muslim woman does, so says the crowd; obeyed her husband, accepted the existence of another woman in her conjugal life - her husband´s second wife -; worked at home and outside of her home, the worst of her sins, only forgiven because the family needed the money.
The neighbors spoke highly of her. Her husband´s second wife, a much appreciated help in the raising of 6 children, never dared to criticize her publicly, only in her thoughts. The "sheikh" at the local mosque considered her an impeccable example of how women should behave. Almost sacred.
Her children´s needs were above her needs and so were her husband´s.
She was piety itself - shiny, sparking, spotless - in the body of a woman.
Or so it seemed.
Nobody thought of Om Mohamed - meaning: "the mother of Mohamed" - as a woman, a real woman. To the world, she was a character, a stereotype, someone who managed to fit a mold, the "perfect Muslim woman-wife-mother".
Yet, women will be women, no matter how far they´ve come into the masquerade game. Humans will be human, no matter how domesticated they may be.
Every Thursday night, the night of parties and fun and hair tossing and sin in the republic of Egypt, Om Mohamed disappeared into a world of her own, one that she would never share with her family.
- Maa´salama, ya habibi (goodbye, my dear). I´ll come back, soon. - She´d tell her husband, just before she left their home, passing a maternal hand over his head, as if patting a baby.
Her husband´s trust in her would not flinch. As far as he knew, his first wife, the dignified mother of his children and a good obeying Muslim woman, was heading to a fashion designer´s shop in down town, an extra-buck spot where she´d work on brides´ gowns.
The second wife would look at her as if intuiting something was off. Never dared to utter a word, though.
The kids would beg for dinner, one that would have to be managed, at least once per week, by the second wife, prostrated on the sofa, lazy and arrogant, way less prone to domestic chores than Om Mohamed.
First, she´d take the mini-bus.
Then, she´d stop to gather some drinks - coca-cola, water, sodas, over sweetened tea.
Finally, she´d go up to the first floor of an old building where other women - wives, mothers, respectful-obeying Muslim veiled women, like her - would gather for an evening of dance.
In these gatherings, women could go back to being women.
They danced. Laughed. Sang. Exchanged intimate news. Ate snacks and got drank on soft sugary drinks. They sweated their demons out. And unveiled their bodies and souls.
Head scarves on a pile, abandoned at a corner of the room. A group of women, dancing for each other, letting their hair down - literally and metaphorically -, reclaiming their birthright to pleasure.
For a moment, they revealed their large, opulent, exhausted bodies as if they were the rarest and most beautiful pearl on earth.
I was in one of those meetings. That´s where I met her - Om Mohamed.
I remember many things, most of them too private to reveal, but one above all things sticks out in my memory:
The way those women, otherwise invisible and with a lowered gaze demure, moved with absolute pride in their bodies and dance moves.
Let me remind you these were not professional Oriental Dancers - they had no formal training in dance, or a correct posture, or a notion of space, or a glimpse of the meaning of art.
They were common women in their 30´s-40´s-50´s-60´s and, on special occasions, in their 70´s and 80´s, with round, heavy, wasted bodies who´d bore too much work, too many children, too much humiliation, trials and tribulations.
Despite their visible disadvantages, when they danced, they showed the world - a world that doesn´t even know they exist - how much confidence they had in themselves. In their bodies. In their movements.
They moved their hips as if they were jewels - they often stared at their own hips, while dancing, and smiled in recognition.
They moved their breasts as if they were a message from God, the Almighty, the Merciful.
They moved their bellies, legs, feet, and arms as if their bodies carried the answers to every mystery in the Universe.
Their smiles - open, omnipresent, stubborn - never left the room.
As a young foreign woman used to analyze, criticize and even punish myself - always demanding more and better from me, my body, and my dance -, I remember being startled by the confidence of those women.
Unconditional.
Unspoken but oh-so-powerful.
Unbeatable.
What I´d later call "Maa´lema"´s Confidence. Dancing & living as if we were a 3-year-old wearing a Batman´s cap.
In this Blog Post, also a Podcast Post, I tell you what that means. I´m also inviting you to embrace it - whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever shape your body may be, no matter how much or how little you may know about dance.
Listen. Feel it. And apply it.
Want to go deeper into the unconditional self-confidence of the "Maa´lema"?
Also, want to learn a b-o-m-b-a-s-t-i-c Baladi Choreography that´ll rock your world?
If so, check our pioneering ONLINE "BALADI COURSE - MAA´LEMA EDITION"
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