All-new Egyptian fusion music reached my ears over the weekend – and I’m not talking about taking a Contiki tour of the Middle-East (I wish).
Astertjie found herself at the South African Belly Dancing Championships, cheering on a student friend. Every wiggle and jiggle left me realising two things: one being that I cannot dance even when dancing means doing wicked tricks with your stomach muscles and swaying your arms, and the other being that there is no singular definition of beauty.
Firstly, I honestly don’t believe I have the aforementioned stomach muscles. Period.
Secondly, beauty as was observed at the Roodepoort Theatre where the competition was held was inclusive of women with larger hips, larger stomachs, larger thighs, larger and smaller busts, long hair, short hair, all ethnic backgrounds and women with lesser or more defined muscles than others – that’s right, everybody. I found myself, to my own astonishment, at a competition that didn’t discriminate against or favour anyone. The belly dancing institutions prescribe no single definition of what is beautiful.
Everyone was there because they truly meant to display their skills in terms of dancing and choreography, not because of vanity. Yet, every single woman who competed clearly was confident in her ability, albeit a bit tense due to the competition, had a good self-image and clearly was aware of the value that she personally was adding to the industry.
Honestly, though, I’d argue that some of the curvier women did their dances in more entrancing ways (I am of the opinion that the pioneers of these dances must have been curvy women themselves), their bodies displaying every intricate move flawlessly and beautifully. Nevertheless, every last person who competed there could out-dance me just by swaying their hips, including the slimmest women (some of them being more skilful than other competitors). Combine that with the gorgeous outfits that are mostly hand-sewn and imported, and their enthusiasm on stage, and you have one powerful jaw-dropping performance.
I could barely leave without having to ogle every last one of the many outfits a woman at a stall outside had on display. I couldn’t help but wonder if I also should join the ranks by next year but, as I later confirmed, no single stomach muscle like thát could be found.
Congratulations to every single woman out there who takes part in this or other art form in pursuit of personal acceptance, true liberation and well, fun.
