Dahiyya in the Desert

Chapter 3 of Veiling in the Desert

by Shema ~ Emma Lucy
posted December 14, 2012

We had already driven away from the wedding when the phone call came: “Bring her back, quick, there is Dahiyya!” We jumped back in the car, along with a young Swedish man who jumped at the rare chance to see the traditional dance performed at the wedding in Tarrabin. As we drove down onto the beach, there was the sound of gunshots in the air as local men fired into the air over the Red Sea in celebration and exultation; the white Toyota trucks favoured by the Bedouin were squeezing past each other in the constant flow of traffic between the immense tents erected on the sand, glowing with the light from a thousand and one multi-coloured light bulbs strung up across the bamboo, wood and canvas structures. I had been at the wedding all evening, sat in the women’s tent; a modern, white marquee-type affair, brightly lit and stifling in the heat of a Sinai summer. Most of us had migrated outside to lean on each other under the stars, drink sweet sharbout from white plastic cups, and listen to the chattering of a hundred voices. There was a plethora of diamante, interspersed with young girls wearing jeans and t-shirts, hair loose in the all-women enclosure.

The men were installed in the larger tent, after having driven their wives and sisters through the specially constructed one-way system, designed to ensure that no men from outside the family would see the women exiting the vehicles, and there was a stream of black-clad silhouettes filling the entrance.

It was now past midnight, and although many people had left, the area outside the women’s tent was now unlit, aside from the blue glow from the full moon over the sea. There were now men of all ages congregating outside the women’s tent, and as my eyes adjusted to the low light, at their feet, I saw a pool of black shapes on the ground. The Swedish tourist was overwhelmed; not knowing whether to stay with me, as a fellow-European, or hang out with the men who, in contrast to the static pool of women, were moving amongst the groups, greeting friends, cousins and elders, talking and laughing loudly with excitement, all wearing white gellabiyahs, and as they shifted and rotated around the space, I lost track of the people I knew as they merged into one another in the half-light.

Seemingly without intention, the group began to split and eight or nine older men formed two lines on the left, facing each other, whilst the younger men drew an arc on the opposite side of the area. I heard a murmuring from them all as the two Dahiyya forms began.

Chanting, and clapping a solid beat, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and with a lilting, bowing motion, they shuffled back and forwards. On the left, other men watched the lines, clapping and encouraging them as they sang lyrics to bless the marriage, pray for fertility, and bring luck to the community through this new union. On the right, the semi-circle was growing as more and more men joined the song, bumping shoulders, nudging each other, giggling and chatting as if they had not seen each other for months; had not spent recent days sat drinking shai and phoning each other from the camps. This is family–a close-knit one which never tires of each other’s company and always has something to chat about, even through the hard times.

There were shrill zaghreets now emanating from the cluster of women on the ground, clapping from under the abayas; all of them unrecognisable in black, in the darkness. A sudden movement and harsh cries of jubilation from the group, as one woman stood up, her shoulders pulsing to the rhythm of the clapping and she floated into the arc, rising up and down on the balls of her feet, heedless of the sharp stones in the sand, the corners of her guna’ lifted at the sides like wings. A woman once told me that if Egyptian Baladi dancing represents ‘earth’, then Dahiyya is the ‘air’ element. She was right. The dancer flowed around the space, close to the men, who picked up the pace, became louder and more energised, jostling each other in their game of pretending not to know who was under the guna’. For every person there, knew who was dancing, but out of respect and tact, this intermingling of men and women is tolerated; a rare time when the two genders can be together regardless of family connection and can make music, and dance together, without any recrimination or disapproval.

It is a precious tradition in a society where segregation is particularly extreme. As the first dancer merged back into the puddle of black on the sand, another woman rose to take her place, and then another, as one-by-one each woman took her turn, sometimes overlapping with each other so there were two figures in the arena, like black moths, flitting and spinning against the white gellabiyahs.

We stood transfixed between the groups, not part of either world, but in a privileged position to witness an extraordinary dance; an extraordinary moment, in the lives of the Tarrabin Bedouin. The dance is unlike any other across the Middle East, a vestige of their Saudi Arabian heritage, preserved by the seclusion of a nomadic life, and only now being influenced by modern Iraqi and Saudi music videos, blasted out in the evenings from small televisions in the concrete and breeze-block houses which coat the once palm-tree covered sands of Tarrabin. This tribe, perhaps more than any other, is determined to safeguard its traditions, maintain its independence and avoid being engulfed by outside influences. Yet there were more rhinestones than at an international Bellydance event, mobile phones ringing constantly, Rolex watches and bright nail colours, expensive cars and English phrases drifting out of the night. Change is inevitable, necessary, and hopefully, progressive. For a community in a stage of transition, clinging to tradition through the expression of their arts is an important and vital means of discovering their future path. For one, I consider myself fortunate beyond words to have been allowed to observe this art, even from a distance, and to be able to share its essence through my writing. I am told that next time, I will be amongst the women, and invited to dance too but only if I wear a long skirt to cover my ankles…

View of Saudi Arabia through author’s window.

Resources:

• Author’s bio page