Tribal Fusion Male Zenne Belly Dancers By Laura A. Munteanu

I recently encountered a cultural dance form that I found both challenging and with further study hypnotically beautiful. In America, this cultural presentation is a form of dance going under the label of Tribal Fusion, but a simpler description would be costumed male belly dance. 

                                         
                                     Photo: Horus Mozarabe, Tribal Fusion belly dancer

As a Romanian commentator, the Roma and Sinti part of my heritage responds to the romantic and exotic notions of the Lebanese, Turkish, Roma and Egyptian belly dance, particularly the athletic, the aesthetic and the sexual presentation of the performer's body framed by the costuming, accessories and escalating rhythms of the music. Whilst it is a popular misconception that belly dancing originated as the advertising foreplay of prostitution, the personal domestic and public presentations of belly dancing clearly, all involve a celebratory dynamic of sexual display. 

                                 Photo: Zadiel, Zenne belly dancer


The transpositions of the dance moves and the costumes to male performers appears on surface to be simply an extension of gay subcultures appropriation and mainstream dance culture, like vogueing. However, on closer inspection, despite Tribal Fusion's relatively recent origins in 1960s Californian Renaissance Fairs, seems to be much older and more complicated. 

Middle Eastern countries are not noted for their tolerance of homosexual culture. Yet, in Ottoman Turkey, particularly under the Ataturk period, male belly dancers were as common as female ones, if not slightly more prevalent. It appears, that the zenne dancer, a man who dressed as a woman, and danced for the titillation of predominantly male crowds has a long and complex cultural tradition, which nearly died out by the 1960s. Whilst not exactly inhabiting gay culture as we understand it, zenne dancing appears to inhabit a submissive niche for a dominant, penetrative elite. Whereas neither parts would describe themselves as homosexual, the zenne dancer performed a feminine role, which by definition of the Ataturk culture was a submissive and titillating role. 

In recent years, as a result of Caner Alper and Mehmet Binay's Turkish film "Zenne Dancer", on one hand, and american Tribal Fusion on the other, male belly dancing has undergone a cultural renaissance. In the face of religious fundamentalism in the region it appears to have shed its submissive dynamic, and it's now being performed as an assertive and defiant act by citizens, using it as a means of personal aesthetic and celebratory self esteem. 

Interestingly, just to add cultural confusion it's an aesthetic form which is now embraced by the heterosexual community, as well as the homosexual community.  And its resurgence it's possibly responsible for other similar displays in parallel art forms, such as the Bulgarian performer Azis, who's pop diva, lady-man performances have found inexplicable commercial success, in traditionally homophobic Bulgaria. 

Coming from a culture with a strong tradition of community dance, and living now in a culture with a more inhibited sense of dance I find the mutations evident in Tribal Fusion utterly fascinating. And I leave you the following links to make your own mind up, to introduce you to this cultural form of expression. 

Horus Mozarabe performing Tribal Fusion Belly Dance

Zenne Segah performing Turkish Belly Dance

Rachid Alexander performing Oriental Belly Dance

Bulgarian Chalga singer Azis 

Being Batman By Laura A. Munteanu

It's difficult sometimes, to feel that I fit into this world I find myself in. And whilst it's true, but I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for, it's equally true that I'm not entirely sure if I want what I've found. In the fireside tales of my distant youth I learnt about all sorts of complicated solutions to difficult problems, that involved turning yourself into an animal. A bird to fly over a high wall, a fish to swim to the bottom of the lake, a wolf to run through the strange forestland. I appreciate that these stories are probably just metaphors, prosaic descriptions of powerless people fantasising the subversion against the injustice of the authority figures that routinely crushed their aspirations. Those stories however planted a simple seed deep in my soul. A seed that has secretly grown that has infected my whole personality.

They used to say in my country that I have my head in the clouds. People would come up behind me and surprise me and tell me to wake up, making the jump for their amusement from my introspection. I used to be scared of the dark, imagining all the creaking noises that surrounded me in the dark were the sounds of claws scraping across the linoleum around my bed. Imagination can be an expensive problem if you are born into poverty or you find yourself in its arms. Nobody cares what the poor woman dreams, what shape she would like her community to take. And like the heroine in a Romanian folk story I packed my possessions into a small suitcase and sought my fortune in a foreign land. Whilst the road was hard, paved with scorn, mockery, dismissal or obstructions, I finally began to take some control over the direction of my life. And all the time through my years of struggle a little voice inside me urged me to ignore the scorn, the mockery and the folly of the fools around me, and to put myself in a position where my dreams could begin to make a difference.

This week, I found myself in Brighton, on the south coast of England, unexpectedly bracing itself for the invasion of thousands of Socialists for the Labour Party Annual Conference. Coming from a Communist country, Socialism is an ideology not entirely outside my experience, and compared with the divisiveness of conservativism, or the opportunism of liberalism is certainly closer to the colour of my political complexion. Having recently joined the party to deliberately support a left-wing leadership candidate I found myself somewhat isolated, at a very nervous conference, re-experiencing the changes the popular democracy brings. The moderate left-wing members of the party establishment were facing difficult decisions daily between their loyalty to the movement and their loyalty to their personal history of moderation. As a result, I found once you've fought past the desperate right-wing media scraping the streets of the stories that would damage the party's resurgence, the members of the party conference were either highly cautious not to express their opinion, or highly anxious to express their loyalty. Both positions being difficult for an outsider, a foreign outsider, to fully comprehend and navigate through. I should stress at this point that my loyalty to my new political party is unshaken. The message our new leader has projected is the direction I dream of for political opposition, in this, my borrowed country. I would dream of such opposition in my own country, but that's another story. I must also say, however it was particularly difficult, disentangling the new from the old to find that the new is older than the old. Nontheless, my experience is best described by my encounter with Nathan.

In the euphoria following the leader's speech to conference, and following a particularly positive meeting defining the party's stance on the opposition to the changes proposed by the Conservatives to the membership of the Human Rights Act in the European Union, I stumbled out of the conference centre. My head was full of supportive, inclusive, socialist mantras. I'd nearly run out of money and I wasn't feeling particularly health-conscious. As I was heading back to the hotel I bumped into a homeless man, called Nathan reading George R.R. Martin's "A Storm Of Swords" in a very dim light, coming from the fish and chips shop next door. I bought him a cup of tea and some fish and chips and asked him to come and sit at the table and I'd like to hear his story. Nathan was surprised by my offer and quickly accepted. The man who sold me the fish and chips refused to let Nathan sit at the table, arguing he didn't buy any food. I told the man he just did. He replied it wasn't him it was me. To which I responded I bought the fish and chips with Nathan's money, because he thought that if he'd come in he wouldn't be served because he's too dirty. In the end, the man gave up and allowed Nathan to sit at the table, but only for as long as he's eating. Nathan is 34, he's been homeless since he was 23, and he's been on the list for four years with Brighton Council for a temporary accommodation. Every now and then he sleeps in a shelter, which he pays for, with the money he earns on the street from the generous members of the public. I've asked Nathan if he'd like me to help him, because as well as a hot drink and food we both agreed he could also do with a bath (he couldn't remember when was the last time he had one) and a good night sleep. He took my hands in his very cold hands and kissed them. So, I've called Brighton & Hove Council SOS line, who assured me they will be taking care of Nathan immediately. And whilst Nathan will probably have many more rough sleeping nights, at least tonight he won't.

When I arrived at my hotel I found the owner hovering in the foyer, who asked me how my day had been. His veneer of politeness vanished when I described my encounter with Nathan, his initial response being "Why doesn't he get a job, why is he sitting in front of a fish and chip shop, if not to inspire pity in people?"
Unfortunately, I got used to my Batman helmet by this time in the evening, and in my best vigilante voice I stared the hotel owner in the eyes and asked him "Common, would you ever give a homeless man a job, doing anything in your property empire?"
He replied, "Of course not. They don't want to work, these people. We're fed up of them coming here, begging in Brighton."
So I then added, "Well, I'm afraid you are the problem. Your refusal to make any accomodations to support your fellow human being is what creates this situation in the first place. If we dehumanise people we deprive them of any human rights, which means we allow any kind of atrocity to happen to them." And to his credit, he looked away and couldn't match my stare. I would like to say at this point, that as a true Robin Hood class worrier I punched him unconscious in the face, robbed his seif and redistributed his capital assets amongst the worthy poor. But we all know, that that transformation only happened in my head. I don't think I've changed the capitalist mind, but maybe I've made him reflect for a moment.

This story is not about how cool and altruistic I am. It's not about the Labour delegates queueing up for their fish and chips and ignoring the homeless man reading a book on the street. It's not even about why Nathan was homeless, or what made him fall through the cracks in the floorboard to find himself on the street. It's not even about how we deal with the vulnerable in the society. This story is about a really simple thing. The cafe owner didn't want the homeless man eating his fish and chips at his table. He didn't want to endanger his future wealth by serving a customer who paid money for the goods and services he was selling, for fear that that sale would restrict future sales. The narrowness and selfishness of that businessman's personal self-interest is what is wrong with our society. The marketplace unregulated, unrestricted does not provide enough resources for all to enjoy. Nathan doesn't just need somewhere to live. He needs counselling, medical attention, education, social support and eventually employment. A society that wastes the resource of its own population needs healing. And that is why sometimes it would be better if more of us pulled on the cape, and instead of just dreaming about the better world, did something about making the world better. Every gesture helps from picking up the litter to challenging racist or sexist abuse, to supporting the vulnerable, to just sitting down next to a stranger asking them if they're okay and if they would like a cup of tea. You don't need to be bitten by a radioactive spider to care about the people around you, even if they're not your family. And that's what the fight is about.