Belly Dancing Becomes Hip

For two hours every Monday night, the old gymnasium at Valley College is transformed into a rocking casbah. Primal rhythms of haunting Egyptian melodies fill the air, and women of every size, shape and age don colorful hip scarves of purple, magenta and violet embroidered with shimmering coins and jangling beads.

We are here to learn how to belly dance.

There are 20 of us in this Middle Eastern dance class, a motley crew that includes a mother and daughter of Jordanian descent, a commercial actress in her 60s, a housewife, a young woman in search of her long-lost Arabic father, a teacher recovering from a muscular disorder--and me, a journalist.

We are here for reasons as different as our body types.

But we are all part of what our teacher, Elissa Kyriacou, who teaches classes at 10 different sites from Ventura to Beverly Hills, calls a “belly dancing renaissance.”

Soon, she says, she will begin teaching at several local gyms.

“It’s getting to be so mainstream,” says Kyriacou, who has taught for two decades. “It used to be this esoteric, exotic thing. But these days, people are accepting, rather than leery of it.”

Though belly dancing is associated with smoky restaurants and dark, exotic women, sexual titillation and erotic pleasures, that is not why most of us are here to learn what Kyriacou calls “the sacred dance.”

During the six-week course, drum beats will seep into our souls, and the intricate finger cymbal rhythms will keep our digits tapping on the steering wheels of our cars.

Maybe we will dress differently or plan a more exotic vacation to Morocco or Egypt. Or maybe we will just have stronger hip and stomach muscles.

That is what we are here to find out.

Dance of Empowerment

We arrive at the first classes excited, tentative. Most of us wear baggy clothing to hide our bodies, our femininity.

Our teacher, Kyriacou--who dances under the Egyptian pseudonym “Najwa,” stands before us. She looks exactly the way you would expect a belly dance teacher to look. She has a cloud of long, black hair, oval eyes, white skin and painted red lips. Her body is strong but voluptuous, like the figures carved on ancient Indian temples.

She wears a fitted black top, a long black skirt and flat Hermes sandals to prevent the grit on the gym floor from tearing up her feet. Around her waist is a dazzling hip scarf from Egypt that catches the light and jingles when she moves, keeping our eyes trained on her hips.

In the first class, she explains the history of the dance. I am surprised to hear a story of empowerment rather than subjugation.

There is no written record of how belly dance started, but dancers and anthropologists say it is one of the oldest forms of dance, dating back thousands of years to prebiblical times, when it was part of goddess worship, fertility rites and religious rituals associated with childbirth. It was a dance done by women, for women, she says.

“Belly dancing celebrated the female principle in the universe, as you can see,” Kyriacou says. “Kings, pashas, caliphs and sultans saw that and said, ‘Whoa, that’s a good thing,’ and kidnapped the women and took them to be entertainers at court. They became associated with prostitution.”

Class Not for Dilettantes

On this August night, Kyriacou stands before us, facing the mirror that runs the length of the wall. It will serve as our training wheels as we start jiggling and shaking in unfamiliar ways.

Kyriacou begins with simple moves--slow, rolling hip circles, shimmies and gentle arm undulations that make us look like Indian figurines.

We stare at her, mesmerized, then try to follow.

Her body is fluid, graceful and smooth, then suddenly agitated and frenzied. Each body part seems to be operating on its own.

Her face remains impassive or smiling and calm. There is no sign of effort, no hint of strain. Watching her, I feel beautiful.

I sneak a look at myself in the mirror and am horrified. I look like a disjointed marionette.

I redouble my concentration, quickly realizing this class is not for dilettantes. Belly dancing is hard work.

Kyriacou herself is a combination of mother goddess and military task master. She has little tolerance for those not ready to practice hard and listen well.

As we try to isolate our body parts and use muscle groups we never knew we had, she barks out orders.

“No!” she says to one student who is not getting a shimmy. “Legs together, up. Legs together, down.”

“Look in the mirror,” she tells the class. “Make sure your body is doing what you want it to do.”

Most of the time, our bodies are not.

Students Have Different Motives

Over the course of the class, my fellow students talk a little about why they are here.

Shirley Cowan, a commercial actress in her 60s, said she had always wanted to take a belly dance class, when she stumbled upon this one.

“I may be too old, but it’s a lot of fun,” she says after the third class. “I’m winded. But I come home rejuvenated.”

Andrea Carrillo, 24, of Van Nuys, has a Moroccan father and a Spanish Gypsy mother who separated when she was young. She is dancing to learn about the culture of a father she no longer knows.

Danita Redd, 42, of Burbank, first saw belly dancing in the streets of Egypt years ago. Today, she dances to celebrate her body’s slow recovery from a muscular disorder known as fibromyalgia.

“I saw girls in the street doing it,” she said. “Little girls, 10 and 11 years old, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I said, ‘One day, I am going to learn to do that.’ ”

But it is only recently, while undergoing an experimental treatment for her disorder, that she has been able to move her arms again.

As for me, I have been fascinated with things Middle Eastern ever since my father brought me a pair of pointed turquoise slippers from Istanbul when I was a child.

Hip Circles in the Car

Together, we are here to learn.

Kyriacou next has us lie down on our sides on the mat and point one toe and then shake that leg, shimmying. We just leave it there, shaking, until it burns.

Then she has us wave one arm, like a fluttering wing, slowly, while our legs continue to jiggle at high speed.

Then we add in a chest circle, at a third speed--slower than the leg, but faster than the fluttering arm. Then we try to do all three at once.

I feel like I am having a spastic attack, spurting into convulsions, then collapsing.

We lie on the mats, giggling and grunting from the effort.

But that night, as I drive home from class, listening to Ani Di Franco on the radio, I feel myself doing hip circles in my seat. I never knew my hips could do that.

Class Gets Into Spirit

The next week, people are wearing different clothes. Some still sport sweats and baggy shorts. But others are getting into the spirit.

Kyriacou says she sees it in class after class.

“They come here in T-shirts and shorts,” Kyriacou says. “And slowly, slowly, they begin to dress to fit the dance form. They start transforming.”

Cowan wears a bright orange skirt. Mari Haneda, 29, wears a long sheath skirt and a top that shows her belly peeking out.

As the classes progress, we grow more confident. We learn how to click our fingers with tiny cymbals and how to swirl chiffon veils around our bodies while we dance.

Sometimes we practice at home. Redd has bought a hip scarf, and Carrillo says she practices the finger cymbal rhythms in front of a big mirror. I bought some music.

We still look spastic, but, sometimes, we begin to look beautiful.